10 Gray, Give or Take
by Sachehund
Summary: Two nuclear missiles launched from the Divide strike the Legion and the NCR, leaving the survivors to deal with the aftermath. Rated T for explicit descriptions of severe radiation poisoning, and other unpleasant subjects.
1. Tuesday, February 13th, 2282

This idea sprang from the bombs detonating over the NCR and the Legion at the end of Lonesome Road, and what the after-effects of that would be if one added a touch of actual realism to the game environment when it came to radiation poisoning. Something that went beyond "ghoulification." So... fair warning: this is **a very frank take on nuclear assault, with absolutely no hedging.** This includes the initial strike, and the aftermath.

Characters Involved: Ranger Ghost, Ranger Jackson, Major Knight, Colonel Moore, Julie Farkas, Doctor Richards.

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><p><strong>[<strong> 1 **::** Tuesday, February 13th, 2282 **]**

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><p><em>If they do not now accept our terms they may expect a rain of ruin from the air, the like of which has never been seen on this earth.<em>

President Harry S. Truman  
>August 6th, 1945<p>

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><p>For those in the Mojave, it seemed for a time that the Great War of two centuries past had come again, with no discernible rhyme or reason, no time to prepare for what would inevitably follow.<p>

Many would later insist that there had been no warning, but they knew, understood only too well that there had been: a signal flare sent up mere days before the disaster struck, a fiery explosion that lit up the sky over the Divide, but few bothered to see it for what it was until it was right on top of them.

When the bombs hit, they hit simultaneously; one to the East, one to the West. Even for those that didn't see the initial blasts, the remnant mushroom clouds were plain as day: thick, silver pyres that extended into the sky, their presence announced by a distant rumble of synthetic thunder echoing across the landscape. In that moment, the Mojave was stunned to silence; people stopped in their tracks to stare uncomprehendingly; skirmishes between east and west came to a halt, attention split between the two horizons.

The battles halted, combatants turned to one another, a keen sense of gravity settling between them. Bloodied and battered though they were, their mutual hatred, mutual resentment, seemed to evaporate in that moment, a silent question exchanged between them. Those that fought for sport continued to do so, but most of them, men and women on both sides who fought for a purpose, a belief- a nation- lowered their weapons, uncertain of whether or not those nations were still present.

If the worst had come to pass, and there was a victory to be had in the war they waged together... for whom would the victory be claimed? If dead lands lay to either side of them, what purpose did their conflict serve?

It was a question they'd take back to their leaders, turning their backs to the battlefield to follow the shared, unwanted epiphany. Slow and ungainly, their retreats were sluggish, halting enough that either side could have turned on a dime to claim an easy victory. But again, that question raised: until they knew more, what victory was there to be had?

The profundity of the unforeseen, seemingly unprovoked attack would not be known for some time; just the basic details. East of the Colorado, a crater had been blasted into the soil, the exclusion zone that surrounded it too vast to be negotiated in a short period of time, and those that attempted to do so were soon doomed to fall fatally ill. To the West, the route that carved through the mountains, one of the few reliable paths connecting the NCR to the Mojave, had befallen an equally devastating fate, leaving many to wonder if the way home had been closed indefinitely.

Leaders on both sides had no answers for their subordinates. The NCR, panicked by the loss of a significant supply route, tried desperately to get in contact with their home states, but found that the thick radioactive cloud that settled over the mountain pass had effectively cut off communications. Of the outlying NCR settlements that might have been caught in the blast, there was no word. Couriers from the Legion, either caught too close to the blast, or spending too much time near the exclusion zone, succumbed before they could deliver messages to the Fort that detailed the damage. The rest, those that took alternate routes, would not arrive for many weeks after the explosions had hit.

Those long journeys, bearing outdated messages that could not communicate the scope of the disaster, exemplified a point that both sides understood only too clearly: that for both, returning home would pose as great a challenge as remaining where they were. Adding to that realization was the stunned recognition of what would undoubtedly follow; the jet stream would invariably push the radioactive particles from the west into the Mojave; the southernmost portion of the Colorado would be poisoned for generations...

What it would all amount to, how great an impact it would have, was difficult to decipher... and very few wanted to know the answer.

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><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>Lo Gaseat- known as Halloran Springs prior to the Great War- a small but flourishing NCR settlement, got a name for itself thanks almost entirely to luck of the draw. The prospectors that found it would tell a different story, of course; to them, the quarries in the nearby mountains, still containing gold, silver and turquoise, saying nothing of the remains of the town itself, had been more than enough reason to earn it a place on the map. Home that it was to several types of raw materials, salvageable equipment, and other lucrative scraps, that seemed likely enough, but in reality, the town hadn't begun to prosper until the Army moved in and put down roots of its own.<p>

Kimball, a General at the time the settlement had been founded, had recommended placing a base of operations on a nearby stretch of highway, taken by the natural shielding and the prospect of securing the high ground, the mountain pass itself viewed as an incredibly useful bottleneck in case of attack. The Joint Chiefs had agreed, and in no time, construction of the Long 15 Army Base was underway. Since its inception, the base quickly formed a mutually beneficial relationship with its neighbor, giving jobs to locals and putting caps in the hands of food vendors, ones that eventually moved on to establishing humble, but lucrative, diners.

In time, it wasn't just soldiers that frequented the community; laborers the NCR brought in to build and maintain both the equipment, and the few makeshift shelters they'd been ordered to construct, often visited in their time off. Some even chose to stay, adding to a steadily growing population, and lending their skills where needed, both at the base, and within the town itself. As a result, Lo Gaseat enjoyed a great deal of trade and commerce, more than enough to not only sustain the community, but to continue mining the minerals the founders had discovered. That alone made the townspeople far more willing to forgive some of the rowdier soldiers that strayed into their otherwise humble bars and eateries, on the basis that, were it not for them, the town's good fortune may not have been possible.

It didn't take long for the Long 15 base to be thought of as one of the biggest, most effective staging grounds for the NCR's campaign to annex the Mojave. Proving its value throughout Kimball's assault on Bullhead City, and soon boasting a full complement of fully-trained, able-bodied soldiers, it began to take on additional functions, serving as a training ground for incoming recruits, a well-protected supply depot, and a relay station for long-range communication. When trade routes opened into the Mojave, it also became a temporary checkpoint until the Outpost could be fully outfitted, a place for merchants to resupply, acquire additional protection, and verify their compliance with NCR trade regulations before being allowed to move on.

Beyond the permanent staff, the personnel stationed at the base were typically recruits going into the Mojave, or reservists that had been rotated out for their proper allotment of 'downtime,' but there were some unique additions. Both non-commissioned and commissioned officers often returned to the base to undergo extensive training in the use of salvaged power armor, a task that Colonel Royez, the base commander, was well-suited for. Many argued that the army would be better served if they'd placed him on the front lines, but were often reminded that after enduring many long years in the service, he was content to remain behind; he did, after all, have his retirement to look forward to.

Or, so he thought.

In a single afternoon, thoughts of retirement, of the long and difficult road Lo Gaseat's residents had traveled on the way to prosperity, of the long tours soldiers were leaving behind them as they got ready to return home to California, had been erased.

The town's luck had run out; the base's vital functions, put to rest.

Those closest to the blast became disembodied silhouettes seared into the soil they'd mined, on the streets they walked, whereas those farther away, either died of flash burns, or succumbed to a slow transition into madness, bodies reconfigured by a blistering wave of radiation. There- left to stumble uncomprehendingly through a desiccated carcass of broken concrete and twisted metal- they remained, knowing implicitly that this was where they belonged, utterly incapable of understanding why.

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><p>[...]<p>

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><p>At sunset, the overcast skies were flush with an array of colors, some vivid, some desaturated; sickly. The unnatural silver-green hues of the dust that settled over the western horizon had dissolved into a void pale purple, a wash of fiery reds and bright golds providing a spark of normalcy to an otherwise unearthly palette. Some stopped what they were doing to appreciate the smell shred of beauty that had come of the destruction they'd witnessed that afternoon, but others, many others, couldn't have cared less.<p>

Beyond the obvious need to survey the damage dealt to the Long 15 base and evacuate all those individuals that survived the assault, there was a push to determine what was going on with the Legion. Concerned that, even after enduring their own attack, their long-time enemy might seek to capitalize on the chaos the NCR had been thrown into, the NCR brass had mobilized Ranger Station Echo to see for themselves what was going on in Cottonwood Cove. The word they received back had been a relief: the mad scramble the NCR found themselves faced with was one that the Legion was facing, as well. For those observing, it was heartening to know that the raw panic felt amongst their own troops was reflected in Caesar's men, the magnitude of the attack leaving them staggered, more uncoordinated than they'd ever been. They, like their enemy, had been cut off from a primary supply line, and there was little they could do about it, but by contrast, they'd gotten off lucky. If 'lucky' was the proper word for it.

Still capable of drawing in supplies from the northeast, using trails branching off into Utah, they were not entirely cut off from resources they relied upon, though the amount of time it would take to get goods and reinforcements in from Flagstaff would be substantially increased. There was some small hope that the attack would be demoralizing enough to bring the advance to a standstill, but many NCR military officials agreed that it was more likely to hinder, rather than derail. Or at least, it seemed safer to assume as much.

And the NCR, with no real ability to draw upon their own resources from California, no way of making a quick retreat, was stuck with that scenario as a probable outcome. But matters of the future, of a war effort that was may well have just been lost by default, were of less importance; what mattered was the present moment.

Only three hours had elapsed since the mushroom clouds erupted over the horizon; two since word had reached Hoover Dam and Camp McCarran that at least one of the Long 15's vertibirds had survived. The pilot, only able to evacuate small numbers of survivors at a time, had requested ground support in locating some of the patrols that had avoided the worst of the blast, and word was passed on to Major Knight to lay down the groundwork for a relief effort. Instructed by Colonel Moore and Colonel Hsu, who were themselves taking cues from those few experts they had at their disposal, to do whatever was within his power to ensure the safety of those affected by the fallout, Knight had the unenviable task of letting those soldiers that volunteered for the search and rescue know what they were in for.

Assured that extra radioprotective medicines and supplies were en route to the Mojave Outpost, he set out to get the operation underway as quickly as possible. The first, and primary instruction the squads were given was to stay as far away from the hypocenter as possible; by no means were they to get within seven miles of the crater. Second, that it was critical for the soldiers keep track of the time they spent in the more heavily irradiated areas, and not to exceed their allotted time before retreating to higher ground, a point that was weighted by a thorough, spoken 'presentation' on the results of overexposure; results that didn't end in becoming a ghoul, high-functioning or not, reluctantly read from an NCR-approved pamphlet on the dangers of radiation poisoning.

Going by a suggestion Colonel Moore had given him, he laid out a plan that allowed for teams to be deployed on a rotating schedule throughout the evening, for as long as it took to clear the area. Anyone entering into the exclusion zone was told that under no circumstances were they to continue their searches if, after repeated rounds of exposure, they or one of their squad mates so much as looked like they were about to throw up, or seemed in any way disoriented.

"We'll have enough people flooding in here with radiation sickness," he said. "Last thing we need is for you all to join them. Now, we're pretty well-stocked for meds, but we've only got so much on-hand until the supply drop, so I don't want any of you pushing your limits with this. Just go in, get everyone you can, and get out as fast as possible."

He stopped just short of saying that squads should leave behind anyone who clearly wasn't going to make it. That much, they already understood.

Less than a half hour after deploying the first team into the wastes, and a little over an hour before any air-dropped supplies would be delivered, it seemed some of the prospective evacuees had already started to take matters into their own hands. Men and women, both soldiers and civilians, began to approach the Outpost gates, some worse off than others. Nearly all of them had some form of injury from the blast, beta burns that painted their skins, and seared the fabric of their clothes to their flesh. Some had been hit, and in some cases, grievously wounded by falling debris, otherwise healthy, whereas others, those with the least amount of visible injuries, were already beginning to show signs of illness.

In at least one case, a young woman, near delirious, her skin riddled with aggravated burns, had aimlessly dragged the body of one of her comrades to the gates, ignorant to the fact that he had died during the last leg of the journey. Not long after her arrival, she began to show symptoms of ataxia, a sure sign that she wouldn't make it through the night. Knight hadn't gotten the opportunity to ask where she'd come from prior to her lapse into delirium, and what few medics they had on-hand were incapable of reviving her for long enough to get a clear answer.

By morning, several teams had been cycled in and out of the area multiple times, all of them met with varying results in regards to who they found, and who they could bring back. The vertibird pilot, downed for the evening due to low visibility, had started back up in earnest, but it soon became clear that there was little else worth searching for.

Reporting back to his superiors with what information he had about the extractions, as well as the state of the soldiers and civilians that had been located, Major Knight was told to order a full evacuation.

"I think we've taken enough chances for one day," Colonel Hsu said. "Seems like we'd be better off playing it safe for the time being."

Knight, though reluctant to abandon ship, couldn't help but agree.


	2. Refuge

_Someone commented that they hoped I'd go into the aftermath of the immediate survivors. The answer, as it turns out, is yes; that was the intention from the beginning. So- good call on that one._

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><p><strong>[<strong> 2 **::** Refuge **]**

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><p>"Don't like leaving all this behind," Lacey muttered, pausing to eye the Barracks.<p>

"I know," Major Knight replied, letting out a light sigh. "We'll be doing our best to decontaminate the area, but, it might be a while. Five weeks, at least."

Shooting him an underwhelmed look, Lacey said, "I didn't mean the Outpost," in a flat tone. "Don't know if you noticed, but I only just got done resupplying the whole damn bar. Threw nearly two thousand caps into making sure this place was stocked, and now I gotta leave it all to whoever's gutsy enough to go on a scavenger hunt?"

Woman had her priorities. Knight had to give her that much, at least.

"Don't know how many scavs are gonna try to come in and loot the place," he said. "We'll be right at the base've the hill, besides. Pretty sure we'll spot anyone trying to sneak in before they manage it." To that, Lacey look less than convinced. Undeterred, Knight said, "Look, we're letting you take as much as the brahmin carts can carry. Everything else, we'll pick up in installments."

"So you can give some've these newcomers more handouts, right?" Lacey said, eyebrow raised. "Don't get me wrong, Major. I get why, and I'm all for a little charity, but for that kinda money? With the 'profits' _I_ make? Seriously, that's pushing it."

"Think of it as doing your part," Knight replied dryly. "Like I said before, we'll see to it that you get reimbursed for your trouble."

"At half the cost," Lacey reminded him.

"You'll figure something out," he said, sighing. "Now, if you don't mind-"

"Yeah, yeah," she said, waving him off. "Official business. I get it."

As she stalked off, he paused- and said, "You can still charge for alcohol, you know."

"Oh, yeah," she called back over her shoulder, deadpan, "figure I'll make a killing on the ones that're already puking their guts out. Bringing up a few good chunks've stomach lining's always good for a laugh."

Shaking his head, Knight turned his attention back towards the large metal fence barring off the mountain pass. There was just one small search party left to wait for, consisting of only two people: Ranger Ghost and Ranger Jackson. Be it bullheadedness, or sheer overconfidence, the two had done more runs than most of the other squads, had brought back more than their fair share of stragglers and useable equipment. They'd both been treated with more than enough Rad-Away every time they came back, and while they certainly seemed no worse for wear on their last outing, Knight was beginning to wonder if he shouldn't tell them to hang back.

It had been a long time since anti-radiation meds had to be used in such excess; made him wonder if the efficacy was as tried and true as people claimed it was. Rad-Away was potent, did its job well, bound to all the stray particles in the system to flush them out once all was said and done, but it hadn't been tested to this extent, at least in recent memory.

It wasn't something he was all that concerned about until the two rangers had gone almost twenty minutes past their scheduled check-in. Telling himself they were both smart enough, and well-trained enough to get clear of areas that were too hot to linger in, he kept his attention split between the small tent city being put together at the base of the hill, and the Outpost gates. Finally seeing the silhouettes of the two rangers on the hill, the both of them moving more slowly than he would have liked, he approached the fence to wait for their arrival, a pair of medics falling in step alongside him.

Once both Ghost and Jackson had made it through the gates, the medics moved in to administer additional doses of Rad-Away, and double-check the both of them for any signs of injury. Jackson, visibly weary, allowed for it, whereas Ghost waved off the young man that came to her side. He barely got time to ask what she was doing when she tore away the rebreather she'd been given after the last resupply, took hold of the fence for stability, leaned over and, after a single breath, proceeded to throw up.

"How many times've you done that?" Knight asked, brow furrowed.

Ghost just shook her head, one more slow breath signaling another round of heaving.

"Just the once," Jackson offered, extending his arm for the medic at his side, the needle of a Rad-Away IV slid into his arm.

"And you?"

Jackson looked down at the needle in his arm distractedly. "Twice," he said reluctantly.

"In any other case," Knight replied, eyes keeping track of the faint tremble in the older man's hands, "I'd say it serves you right. You two overshot by twenty minutes."

"Couldn't be helped," Ghost said, winded, pausing for a moment to spit on the ground; clear the rancid taste out of her mouth. "Practically got ambushed by a pack've ghouls. Couldn't outrun 'em... had to put 'em down."

"Ghouls?" Knight said, incredulous. "That quickly?" She nodded, extending her arm for the medic by her side to accept the fresh dose of Rad-Away. "Take it you didn't find anyone else, then."

"Whoever's stuck in that shithole's a goner by now," Ghost said. "If the ghouls haven't worked 'em over, the radiation has. Place is a goddamn mess..."

"How many ghouls did you see?"

"Too many," she said, rubbing lightly at her arm as the needle withdrew. "Be best if we checked the fences every couple days, make sure they didn't follow us back here."

"Well," Knight said, a faint smile on his face, "someone will. Not likely to be either of you, though. I think you both've done more than your fair share." Beat. "Any sign of Colonel Royez, by the way?"

"Not a one," Jackson said, shaking his head, tucking the needle attached to the bag of rad-away into the plastic container, the rest rolled up and slid into his pocket. "Think it's best we just assume that him'n everyone else on base got killed or-" He paused- and shrugged, lip quirked slightly. "Well. 'Killed' works just as well, I s'pose... no matter which way you're lookin' at it."

"Sir?" one of the medics chimed in- the older woman tending to Jackson. "We're going to need to get rid of this equipment. And the clothes, too," she said, glancing between the two rangers.

"Any reason?" Knight asked.

"Run 'em over with a geiger counter," the medic replied. "That'll give you reason enough."

"Point taken."

"They're not gonna take my hat'n glasses, are they?" Ghost said flatly. "I'm not goin' anywhere without either of 'em."

"I think I've got a couple replacements for you in the barracks," Knight said, nodding towards the buildings.

"If it's a goddamn bonnet-"

"It's not a bonnet," Knight said, raising his hands in feigned surrender, a faint smile on his face. "Learned my lesson from last time."

"Think we all did," Jackson commented, echoing the Major's amused expression.

Dismissing the both of them to go get changed, Knight watched them go for a moment, frowning. "How bad is it?" he asked the woman alongside him.

"We'll be keeping an eye on them over the next couple days," the medic replied. "Keep giving them what medications we can to stave off the worst of it. Aside from that? Best we can do is wait."

"Doesn't really answer my question." A pause. Then, "But it'll have to do, for now."

She offered him a vague, sympathetic smile. "We'll know the answer soon enough," she said, somewhat grimly. "One way or another. Same as it is with the rest of 'em..."

The answer wasn't the one he wanted, of course, regardless of how badly he'd clashed with the two of them in the past. But, for all he knew, they'd come out of this just fine; they weren't the first to show signs of nausea, but the fact that both were far more sluggish than they were letting on... Taking one last look at the downward slope leading to the Long 15 base, Knight did his best to turn his thoughts away from notions of inevitability. Whatever happened, would happen. Only thing any of them could do now was wait it all out.

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><p>[...]<p>

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><p>The temporary community that was being build at the base of the slope was small, at first, but those that could help put tents up and create passable accommodations, did their best to do just that. Latrines had been dug quickly, if only thanks to the urgency presented by decidedly less pleasant effects seen from both the radiation poisoning and the medications used to dampen the symptoms. A ways away, among the tents set up for the Outpost's occupants, a makeshift medical tent, powered by one of many generators the soldiers had brought with them, had been put in place, with the promise of more equipment along the way.<p>

That night, as soldiers did their best to get settled, and civilians debated whether to stay or to carry on to other towns, the woman that had succumbed to delirium earlier that day slipped into a coma. Other evacuees, cases where vomiting and fever had hit hard throughout the evening, had already showed signs of internal cell sloughing. To the medics, it was puzzling; the amount of radiation seemed well overboard in comparison to the distance from the crater.

They'd known to look for cases of individuals being poisoned by both internal and external exposure, but the amount of internal exposure appeared to be far greater than anyone had estimated, initially. High enough that Rad-Away barely seemed to make a dent in the symptoms the medics were seeing, and continued to see, in the days that followed. The squads that had moved in to extract the survivors continued to show signs of illness, some worse than others. For Ghost and Jackson, it went without saying that they were hit the hardest, though it seemed a small mercy that their symptoms began to go into remission after their first brush with fever. It seemed like a good sign- _was_ a good sign- but it came with a word of warning: that even some of the more severe cases could sometimes undergo a latency period.

They were better, yes... but they weren't out of the woods.

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><p>[...]<p>

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><p>Cases of radiation sickness soared in the days that followed the evacuation, the bulk of them showing up in the search parties and the evacuees themselves. The makeshift infirmary had been expanded almost immediately; more supplies were flown in by one of the few back-up pilots stationed at the Dam, one that had been on-call for the cancelled visit from the President, the rest- generators, plastic separators to place between gurneys, and medical supplies- brought in from Camp McCarran via the small outpost in Primm. As a result, the tent city had expanded to cover both lanes of the ruined highway, its perimeter under constant watch to keep out the NCRCF convicts and, of course, wayward wildlife.<p>

It seemed, for a time, that the expansion of the tent city would soon undergo a contraction; those patients in desperate need of care, or more correctly, comfort in their final days, had died, and the additional infirmaries were quickly seen as redundant. That was, until more survivors began to come through the gates of the outpost, lured to the jury-rigged settlement by signs that the soldiers of the Outpost had left behind. The influx required more medics to be brought in, both from the NCR and the Followers, the latter offering their assistance without much urging. Newcomers were given what care they needed, and in some cases, it was heartening to see men and women who appeared to have only minor scrapes and bruises. Many hoped that their apparent good health would remain, in spite of the odds, as was the case with the two rangers that had been suspected of having sustained overexposure.

Taking advantage of their remission to ask them questions, Knight had made it a point to get their reports on what they'd seen of the ruins, what little they could access.

Ghost, the first to recover from the high-grade fever that had laid both her and Jackson out, though willing to give a detailed account of what they'd both witnessed, was nonetheless grudging in her delivery. As atrocities went, she had seen plenty, but this, she conceded- at least inwardly- had been something else.

Going in, she knew what Knight was on about when they embarked on the mission in the first place: don't risk your necks for the dead. Save your time for the living. That had been simple enough in theory; in practice, it had felt strange, disconnected. Some of the survivors they'd found, the ones that were long gone but still alive, stayed huddled by ruined buildings, clutching to their weapons even if they seemed to know that self-defense was futile; seemed to know instinctually that the two unscathed rangers that walked among them weren't going to come to their aid. Those that had eyes to see stared back balefully when their gazes locked with the newcomers, resentment plain in their ruined faces. They weren't ghouls; they were human... but those eyes were just as feral, their anger palpable; understandable.

She wasn't about to begrudge them that; had instead done them the favor of keeping her gaze averted. Or, done herself the favor, if she was being honest.

As they began to get closer to the conflagration zone- as close as they dared- she'd seen something black on approach. It stumbled; let out a low, wet moan as it tried to gesture towards them. Its eyes were sealed, swollen, lips like blackened slabs of meat hanging from its face; its entirety, like a silhouette made of rags, the sun illuminating the angry red splotches of skin along its arms.

She called to it tentatively, in spite of Jackson's misgivings. It answered, just barely comprehending; mournful. Then, as if reassured by the sound of a human voice, by signs of life, it stopped, teetered, and fell, Ghost's response giving it permission to rest.

Approaching cautiously, she watched it. The rags weren't fabric, she discovered, one slight touch to the creature's- person's- wrist causing a visceral shift under her fingertips. It was skin, coming off in black sheets, broken open in places where movement had stretched it to its limits. Seemed merciful, then, that whoever it was had died on the spot- but it left her to dwell on how much time had passed since the mushroom cloud erupted. Made her wonder how far this person had walked, their clothing gone, body as ruined as their surroundings.

Raising to her feet, Jackson coming up alongside her, the two stood in silence for a time.

"Why?" Knight asked, curious.

"Why what?"

"What made you stop there?"

Ghost looked at him blankly; hadn't been aware she'd stated the need for silence out loud. Carefully backpedaling, she said, "We were surveying the area... thought we heard something. Ghouls, I suppose... got broadsided not too long after that."

A bald-faced lie, but told well enough that Knight nodded, unsuspecting.

Maybe it was the disquieting panorama of human suffering that had made her briefly reconsider her unwillingness to state why they'd come to a halt; maybe it was the simple fact that her own longevity was in question, but for a moment, she was tempted to simply tell him the truth. The real reason the two of them had paused, and watched, as stirrings of fading human life flickered out in the distance.

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><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>In the span of a week, the tent city, such as it was, had become regarded not as a refuge, but as a place the sick and the injured went to in order to die.<p>

Other visitors arrived as well, ones that Ghost had said would come eventually. Ghouls, some glowing, some not- some still clinging to, or bearing the signs of sentience, but they were in the vast minority. They had climbed the fence separating the NCR proper from the territory it had originally sought to annex; former soldiers that had fled towards the Mojave in an attempt to save themselves, only to find that they couldn't outrun the inevitable. Those that didn't die or break away underwent a full transition during their journey, dimly remembering that there was something of great importance, something they desperately wanted, fueling their travels. Like the transitioned men and women they left behind at the Long 15 Army Base, they followed those brief flickers of cognizance compelling them to continue on to the Outpost without knowing why.

Past the fence, they became aimless, wandering into small settlements and raider encampments in their attempts to prey upon the inhabitants. Oddly, very few of them seemed to bother with the tent city that had sprung up around the highway patrol post; had gone out of their way to avoid it. Some of the newcomers had noticed the ghouls' collective inattention, speculated that perhaps, the thick scent of death, of radiation poisoning that surrounded the encampment was too great a reminder of what they once were, as compelling as the instinctual memories that brought them here. That the combination of sickness and human decay acted as a ward, rather than an attractant.

Others suggested that maybe, their transition had happened so fast that they still knew where their loyalties lay, or alternatively, what had scarred them so badly; it seemed as though anything that bore the flag of the NCR was bypassed, foregone in favor of places they didn't recognize.

Ghost had been dwelling on the phenomena aloud when, turning to Jackson, she'd noticed that patches of his mustache were falling out around the cigar he'd been nursing. When she'd pointed it out to him, he'd raised his hand tentatively, a couple brushes of his fingers causing more of the hair to come out in clumps. She'd joked, once the mustache had come away almost completely, that the look suited him; that the radiation may have done him a favor.

He didn't seem to think it was funny. In truth, neither did she.

A day later, blue-black patches began to appear on his skin, and his gums had, apparently, bled consistently through the night. To make matters worse, the fever had returned, as debilitating as it had been before. Ghost, attempting not to be concerned with her own well-being, had done her best to carry on with the patrol she'd been given... but no less than an hour after she'd heard the news about her superior, she noticed a clump of hair come away with the removal of her hat- and with the brush of her hand, came another.

For the both of them, the latency period had ended.


	3. Groundshine

Parts should be showing up more quickly now. Like I said, this is almost entirely written, but I needed to rearrange how the sections bled together.

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><p><strong>[<strong> 3 **::** Groundshine **] **

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><p>To call the week and a half that followed the bombs falling 'abnormal' would have been a vast understatement.<p>

At Hoover Dam, morale among the troops had hit an all-time low. As understandable as it seemed, Colonel Moore hadn't allowed for it to get in the way of the drills she had then undergo, having to bust more chops over malingering than she'd ever cared to, under the circumstances. In those early days, she had made a decision that altering the routines of her troops, or showing leniency, could be just as damaging to their morale as the disaster itself; that 'going easy' on them would have been too great a sign of acknowledgement. In a way, it worked- but her subordinates weren't the only ones afflicted by uncertainty.

She was, as well. The entire campaign was in flux, their entire reason for being present in the Mojave, in question, and no one seemed to know what to do under the circumstances. Oliver had holed himself up in his office, offering only what was necessary throughout the days and little else, allowing both her and Colonel Hsu to pick up the slack where they saw fit. Normally, she would have been happy to accept the additional duties, or at least, accepting of them, but now, it felt like an unnecessary burden. Even more unnecessary when she received an updated report coming in from the auxiliary outpost that had been established a small distance from the abandoned mountain pass, a report that detailed the cases of severe illness that had cropped up amongst some of those men and women that had been involved in the search parties.

One of the names had stuck out- and the severity of the condition listed had spurred her to submit a request to take a leave of absence. When it went ignored, she approached General Oliver's temporary office within the Dam; went inside to see him in spite of the warning from the door guards that the general wasn't quite himself,

"General?"

Apparently, the guards weren't kidding; something was definitely... different. Off. Oliver's chair was turned away from her; his hat was laid out next to an open bottle of gin, giving her a good view of the man's prominent bald spot. To the sound of the door, or her query, he didn't respond.

Clearing her throat, she said, "General, I need to speak to you about-"

"You happen... to know anything new 'bout what happened at the Long 15?" he interrupted her, voice slurred; bleary. "Heard anything... 'bout the survivors?"

He was drunk. The gin bottle already gave her some idea that he'd been hitting the sauce, but she had no idea how hard until he spoke.

"Yes, sir," she said. "Lo Gaseat's been obliterated. As for the base itself, most of the personnel who were present at the time of the attack- well. There were some survivors, but the medics near the Outpost say that most have either died of their injuries, or from radiation exposure."

"Ah, christ," he sighed under his breath, head lowering; she could see his hand raise a glass, saw his head tilt back again to take down another shot. "Guess that explains why we haven't heard a damn thing from Royez. Goddamn stupid to think it was just the interference..."

She wasn't sure what to say to that; the information shouldn't have been news to him. But given what she was seeing... She'd known Oliver for some time, but drinking on duty- practically bleeding emotion that wasn't machismo, indignity, pride, or impatience? Dereliction of duty? That was something entirely new- something she wasn't entirely sure how to react to, when reporting him was pointless.

With the radios down, there was no one to report him to.

"You ever meet my wife, colonel?" he asked, breaking her out of her train of thought.

She peered at the back of his head, eyebrow raised at the apparent non-sequitor. "No, sir," she said. "You've just told me about her."

"Hell of a woman," he said. "Think you'd like her."

Again, Moore was uncertain of what to say to that; allowed him to continue, which, without prompting, he did.

"She was... comin' in to see me, you know. Fought with her on it, initially. Things being what they are out here, just didn't seem right, havin' her... put herself in danger like that. Told her not to, but, hell if she ever listens to me. Got her mother to look after our youngest, since my oldest... s'got a life of her own, now. Says she doesn't have the time to babysit."

He paused, then, leaving Moore to wonder where, exactly, the maudlin rambling was going. "There'll... be other times, sir," she said tentatively. "For the moment, I-"

"Won't be other times," he interrupted, voice turned somber. "Won't be anythin'... anymore."

"Sir?"

"Louise... she was at the Long 15 when it happened. Gettin'... trinkets or something, I don't know- little things, for the kids. Jewelry from those con artists down by the base."

That explained a lot. Allowing for a moment of silence, Moore had to chide herself, inwardly, for hoping that his sentimentality might be of some help to her, rather than contemplate what it meant to him. She knew, as well as anyone, how fond the general was of his wife; knew that he'd been seen as the exception to the rule when it came to fidelity among soldiers and their spouses. Ever-faithful, in spite of how tense it made him at those times he'd gone for too long without seeing her.

"I'm sorry to hear that," she said gently, measuredly, once a suitable amount of time had passed.

He let out a light chuckle. "Nice of you to say," he replied. "But it's alright to admit that you couldn't care less. Seems like enough that you're botherin' to listen." Turning slowly, he picked up his hat and placed it on his head; she could see, when his eyes weren't shadowed, that they were red. Another first. "Figure that's got something to do with the paper you got there, though."

"It does," she said, as- oddly tempting as it was to deny it. "But I didn't mind listening."

He smiled, humorless. "You're really goin' the full mile today, aren't you?" he said dryly, sharp enough to catch the feigned sincerity. "Must be a hell of a favor you're looking for." He raised his hand, gesturing for her to give him the paper. "Hand it over."

Approaching the desk, she handed him the form she had in-hand, leaving him to squint at it for a time.

"Think this is the first time I've seen you request time off," he commented, glancing up at her. "Some place you gotta be?"

She nodded.

"Says here you want this to start today," he said, lightly tapping the dates and times filled out on the form. "Think it goes without saying that this isn't the best time to be takin' leave."

"It won't be for long," she said. "Just a couple days."

"Takes less time than that for things to from bad to worse, colonel," Oliver said flatly, "you know that s'well as I do." Beat. "Figure you got a reason, though, so how about you tell me what it is, an' I'll consider whether're not we can spare you."

"It concerns a friend of mine," Moore replied, however reluctantly. "One of the soldiers that went in to search the wreckage."

"Didn't know you _had_ friends," Oliver said absently, barely seemed to notice that he'd said it at all. "Guessin' this has to do with one've the rangers?"

"I don't see how that matters," she said, sensing the slight disdain in his tone, "but yes."

He gave a little shrug, aggravatingly dismissive. "Heard the two we got stationed there've taken ill," he said. "Got any idea what their status is?"

"The medics said they'd be surprised if they lasted through the week," she said, unflinchingly, even in spite of the slight weight in her chest. "So... terminal, even in the best of circumstances."

Like with everything else- from Colonel Royez's presumed death, to the extent of the wreckage- he clearly hadn't bothered to read the reports she'd been sending him. Knowing why he'd been so negligent didn't make having to recap all of it any less irritating, but at least she had a reason for it, now.

Thankfully, the update she provided, the answer she gave, seemed to be answer enough for him. He pursed his lips slightly- and nodded, head bowing to review the paper again. She could see some of the grief that had been present in his tone before sneak into the stony expression he put forth, but after the less-than-subtle jabs he'd taken at her, she was beyond caring about anything except the fact that he was putting pen to paper.

"There you go, colonel," he said, handing over the signed forms without bothering to raise his head, voice unreadable. "Might as well make the best of it while you still got the chance."

...Well. Not entirely beyond caring. Just... mostly.

Frowning, she said, "Thank you, general," and paused, considerate.

In the end, she didn't offer him any further condolences; to do so would only seem patronizing. Instead, she turned, and departed, leaving him to take up the bottle of gin and down another swig, the heavy doors closing to the sight of his chair being pivoted, his eyes once again focused on the blank wall behind his desk.

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>It wasn't more than two days after the attack on the Long-15 that Major Knight had started to interview some of the survivors about what had happened. Initially, he'd done it to provide reports to his direct superiors, and allow them to do with the information what they could... but as the days wore on, he found himself speaking to nearly all the men and women who'd lived long enough to seek refuge in the tent city. Talking to them on his off hours, he'd become increasingly determined to hear all of their stories. There was something about it that was unshakably compelling, necessary; seemed so important that he'd started to bring a holotape recorder with him to get all of the details.<p>

Until then, Knight had never had any real concept of the kinds of people that went through the base. He'd been aware of them, to some degree, had seen them when he traveled there on official business, but hadn't given it much mind. That inattention had lead him to forgot that more than just merchants and soldiers passed through.

For one thing, there were those from the nearby town, the ones that traveled to the checkpoint for goods they couldn't acquire in their own shops. Sometimes, the reasons were less utilitarian: the trip was made to see off locals who had enlisted in the army, or, on the day of discharge, had been at the base to welcome them home. It was like a tradition for Lo Gaseat's residents, to either walk or take a brahmin cart to the base to meet their friends and loved ones coming back from the Mojave, making the walk back to the small town as a family. Some of the more conscientious residents had even bothered to show up for soldiers that had no immediate family, or loved ones, to bolster their spirits and give them a sense that, wherever they'd been, whatever they'd seen, at least they were home now. It was as if, in the face of war, in seeing all the trying times the soldiers had gone through, they'd been determined to prove that not everyone was out solely for themselves.

Aside from that, there were the occasional groups of various families that would pass through the checkpoint in search of a new life in the Mojave, families that had filled out all the official paperwork- signing all the right waivers, stating they knew they were walking into a war zone, that the army would not be held liable for injury or death- necessary to resettle. They showed up in quarterly intervals, at times when travel would be the least dangerous, approval for relocation into those territories given out en bulk to allow travelers to migrate together. By and large, the groups were comprised of people who were interested in forging a more prosperous future for themselves, farmers who'd had the dumb luck of living on land that was continuously bought up by Brahmin Barons, won over by the promise of wealth. Those that agreed to stay and work, to sustain their families, found themselves wanting, allowed only living wages once their land had been purchased; made them want for a new home, a chance to prosper. Some were prospectors who'd been forced off their claims by the caravan companies. To them, however difficult the road ahead seemed, however uncertain the future of the new territory, just the promise of staking a claim on something that hadn't been stolen out from under them by was enough to bring them east.

Like anyone else in the wasteland, those people had learned to expect danger as a given, an absolute all its own- but none of them, be they immigrant or resident, civilian or soldier, had ever expected outright annihilation.

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><p>[...]<p>

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><p>Not all of those travelers had hardships, and not all of them arrived with their families- some were merchants looking to cash in on Vegas itself, thinking they had a gimmick that could really take off on the Strip- but they did have some things in common with their less entrepreneurial counterparts: the fate they'd suffered, one that was highlighted in every story Knight heard. One came from a young, articulate merchant, a woman who was looking to capitalize on the so-called New Vegas thirst for new luxuries.<p>

"Specialized in beauty products, if you can believe it," she'd said, in her one thinly veiled attempt at humor. "Heard there was a market for that sort of thing out on the Strip."

Her entire face was bandaged, her eyes bright red, lips nearly charred off, where they could be seen. The doctors said that when she came in, she didn't have a face at all; it was like it had vanished behind lumpen, misshapen masses of charcoal. They said they'd had to remove it completely, peel it away to allow for the skin beneath to heal properly.

When asked about what had happened, she said, "There was a flash," retaining a caved-in posture as she sat on her gurney, reflexively clenching and unclenching her hands together, "and then... it was like the world had vanished. In some ways... I wish it had. When my sight came back-"

She stopped; Knight didn't push her for details after that, and what little she gave was too disjointed to put into place. Calling a halt to the queries when he could see she was getting more agitated, he'd asked if she needed anything, and she fell silent. Then, as if answering another question entirely, she began to speak.

"Every time the medics come by..." She winced, her brows knitting slightly; blinked her eyelids rapidly, eyelids she retained thanks only to the fact that she'd raised her hand shield them from the worst of the heat, and, in the process, had nearly half of her arm melted away. "Please don't hold this against me," she said, voice strained, broken, "but I keep hoping... that they'll tell me it'll all be over soon. When they remove my bandages, I just- I don't know... if I can do this anymore. Between- what I've seen, and how this _feels_..."

From there on, she didn't speak. Couldn't speak. Instead, she bowed her head and did her best to keep from crying- but not because she didn't want to. The pain was simply too much to handle; added to the desire to weep, as well as a greater desire to resist.

A week after she gave her statement, she'd gotten her wish; lapsing into septic shock as a result of her injuries, and the shedding of the epithelium lining her intestines, she died, no longer forced to endure the pain of her treatments, or wonder how she'd react when she finally saw her ruined face in a mirror.

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><p>[...]<p>

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><p>There were many like her, ones who would routinely beg the medics to kill them, people with burns so painful that the mere act of cleaning their wounds was torture in and of itself, the painkillers they were given barely taking the edge off. With nerves newly regenerating from the raw tissues that had been exposed, every day seemed to bring new horrors. And as the week pressed on, it became impossible to go through the day without hearing those deeply troubling appeals. It was worse when it was few children present that they heard, screaming as adamantly as the adults had for their end to come soon; kids that had lost their parents, or were in the process of losing them, made to endure it through the trauma of dealing with their injuries.<p>

For a few others, the reverse was true; they had survived their children. In seeing the suffering of those few adolescents that had lived, however, they wondered if that hadn't been a blessing unto itself, no matter how painful the loss had been for them.

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><p>[...]<p>

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><p>An arms merchant, in his late thirties, was happy to tell Knight his story; wore a non-chalant smile, always, even beneath the bandages that covered half of his heavily-tattooed face. The skin had been completely burned away, he'd said. "Never was one for scarification, but, hell, in this case... it's worth it to have a reminder, you know? Seems like we could all use one."<p>

Of reminders, he was given more than one. His shoulder, upper arm and part of his back were wrapped in bandages; from his shoulder blade down, however, he was unscathed. The concrete wall he'd been behind, he said, thick enough to withstand the shock wave. The doctors had to remove a surprising amount of skin and muscle from his shoulder, all of which, they'd said, had come away from his body with little coaxing.

It wasn't his injuries that concerned him, though. Like those he stayed with in the infirmary, he had seen far worse than what had happened to him.

"Real pisser of it is..." he said tangentially, after relaying some of the details of what he'd seen, "the thing that really gets me, I mean- is I used to specialize in heavy weaponry, you know? The big guns... the ones you can carry, though, not the- howitzer kind. Used to... fix up old Fat Mans for resale... got pretty good at it, too. Had a pitch down pat for sellin' 'em, talking about their 'legacy,' what their name meant, where it came from... shit like that. Worked like a charm..." That non-chalant smile faded, then, slowly, a weary silence settling between them. "...Don't think I've got the stomach to so much as look at one of those things again," he admitted. "Not after this."

He went on to described some of the details he'd missed before, the added reasons for his distaste, as if any more were needed. Said that the first thing he'd seen after he'd regained his vision was a young mother, badly burned, barely capable of walking, and stripped naked for reasons he couldn't completely understand. She approached him to beg for water, startlingly unaware of the fact that the child in her arms, a horribly burned newborn, was dead; decapitated.

"The thing I'm gonna wonder about 'til my dying day," he said solemnly, "is whether or not I should've told her..."

Like the woman before him, he didn't have to wonder for long; as with so many others, his healthy appearance had faded rapidly, and by the second week of staying in the encampment, he had died of radiation poisoning, the levels he'd been exposed to far greater than anything the doctors that treated him had expected.

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><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>Some were more comfortable with telling their stories than others, gave as detailed an account as they could. Others gave fragments, while other still gave nothing at all. At times, the fragments told more than the full stories, spoke of the profundity of loss that they'd suffered; small snippets of phrases that had little context save for their shared experience.<p>

"You saw a cloud, Major," one young woman said. "I saw a pillar of fire."

A column of flame that shot up from the hypocenter not long after the flash hit, tearing across the landscape and lighting up everything that wasn't already ablaze.

"After that," an older man said, as if continuing where she'd left off, without knowing he had, "black rain started to fall. Covered everything. It was like God himself- reached out and marked us all." He shook his head, raising a hand to adjust his partially-ruined glasses. "Maybe it was for makin' cracks about- how livin' the way we are is like livin' in hell," he said. "Wanted to remind us what hell really was."

"It's so easy to say things are awful out in the wastes," a young man commented at a later time. "But we didn't know 'awful' until then. I don't know if we needed the lesson... but I guess- someone thought we did."

"That thing," a woman, one of the few elderly individuals to survive both the blast and the evacuation, had said, looking back towards the mountain pass, "it didn't discriminate. Didn't know the meaning of the word. Didn't care if you were merchant, or soldier... mother or child... But someone did. Someone let it loose... and I don't know if I ever care to know why."

There were those that reflected the sentiment- that the reasons for unleashing such destruction couldn't possibly measure up to what had come of it, whereas others were desperate to know if one of the cruelest acts they'd ever witnessed had any real purpose to it, as if knowing that purpose could somehow make it alright. Both camps would later concede that they were of mixed feelings on it, but all of them agreed that whoever was responsible should be made to see what they'd done. Surprisingly, only a small number asked that the perpetrator answer for it, rather than simply live with it.

"I want 'em to look us in the eye," a young woman said, voice bereft of inflection, "want 'em to see them kids we got in the infirmaries, see all them kids in 'Gaseat, what's left of 'em... an' I want 'em to tell us if they still think it was worth it."

"What if they said it was?" Knight asked, too curious to keep from asking.

"Then... I'd want 'em chained to that goddamn base... an' I'd want 'em to think long'n hard 'bout that answer, about what they done, 'til either the ghouls or the groundshine takes 'em straight back to hell."

Whoever it was, she went on to say, had taken enough people with them already, that it only seemed right, amidst a disaster where so much had gone wrong.


	4. A Long Shadow

[ 4 :: A Long Shadow ]

Of all the communities in the Mojave, the auxiliary outpost was easily the most peaceful, for all the wrong reasons.

The people that milled around the tents did so primarily to get food, or keep tabs on one another. Soldiers kept their conversation limited largely to talking back and forth about patrols, about their last visits to the Strip; things that had nothing to do with the people in the infirmaries. Occasionally, a card game or two sprung up between guards, or patients, but only among the former did fights break out, and those were almost always a result of too much stress, combined with a little too much booze.

Thankfully, those fights didn't last long, as most of those involved realized rather quickly that adding to the stress of their wards was inadvisable; unfortunately, that realization did little to curb the frequency of those bouts. The only other disturbance came in the form of one of the soldiers, wearied by everything they were witness to, attempting- and failing- to get their hands on some Med-X, but that was hardly anything new. If anything, it would give Knight something to talk about with Major Polatli.

Still, some found it hard to blame the thief for it, save to cuff him around for stealing from those who needed the supplies more than he did. Even the new arrival, the Followers' administrator, would have found it difficult to keep from sympathizing, if only a little.

Nine days had passed since the disaster, and Julie, having left her post at the Mormon Fort to join the other doctors the Followers had sent to the tent city, had heard plenty about what many of the temporary residents had been forced to endure; had made it a point to see what was happening with her own eyes. Present since the beginning of the relief effort, the doctors, NCR and Followers alike, looked haggard, depleted- understandable considering the circumstances- the lot of them complaining that every time the Army saw it fit to take down one infirmary, they invariably had to erect it again. People were still, miraculously, coming in from the exclusion zone, all fitting the same description as the others; some would survive, some wouldn't, and all would be host to some form of malady, be it physical or psychological.

"How did you manage to take the time off, anyway?" the doctor reporting to her asked, seemingly eager to turn his mind away from the turmoil that had kept him, and many others, awake for far too long. "I can't imagine this little setback's turned Freeside into any less of a circus."

"It hasn't," Julie replied, looking around at the various patients, "but it's amazing what you can manage with a little creative delegation. Considering what's happening here, I felt it was necessary to make an appearance."

"You didn't put Gannon in charge, did you?"

Julie didn't suppress the faint smile that came from that, saying, "Are you out of your mind?"

"Nearly," the doctor replied, returning her smile with a brief one of its own. "Anyway, it was good to hear you were coming in," he said, jotting down a few more notes. "Think some of our people could use the moral support."

"It's not just our people that could use it," she reminded him gently, though her eyes remained on the people surrounding them. "The NCR took the biggest losses in all of this."

"Yeah, well..." he shrugged, giving a slight shake of his head as he jotted down some notes on a medical form. In a hushed voice, he said, "I'd be a little more sympathetic towards them if they hadn't gone out of their way to bring this on themselves."

Julie arched an eyebrow, affording the young man a pointed look. "What did you just say?"

Looking up, he paused- and shook his head again, looking properly chastised. "Nothing," he said, glancing awkwardly down at his clipboard. "It's just the stress talking."

"Well, if it's not too much trouble," Julie said, tone carrying a none-too-subtle warning, "maybe you could ask your stress to keep its remarks to itself. If it can't? I'm sure we can find a more suitable post for the both of you- one where you're out of earshot."

He got the message, thankfully, though for effect, she added, rather pointedly, that now was not the time or the place for recrimination, pointing out in a hushed tone that, no matter how softly his asides were spoken, there were people present who were more than able to hear him, some of whom were already perilously close to being placed on suicide watch. While she understood, and even shared, to some degree, the resentment many Followers had for the NCR, hearing it spoken in this context was alarming.

Asking the doctor what could have possibly made him think this was the appropriate venue for it, she wasn't surprised to hear him say, "I've been trying not to think."

"I can tell," Julie replied flatly, though any additional lecturing was stayed by his attention turning towards the entrance to the infirmary. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw an NCR officer standing nearby, his hand raised to summon her over to him. "I'll be sending someone in to relieve you in a little while," she said to the young doctor, affording him a little patience in spite of her irritation. "Give you some time to get some sleep. Seems like you could use the rest."

"Thanks," he said gently. "And- sorry."

"I'm not the one who deserves an apology," she said simply, and turned to join the man- Major Knight, if she recalled correctly- outside the infirmary.

He looked as haggard as the rest of them, doing his best to keep his eyes off of the people who occupied the gurneys. "You the one in charge of the Followers?" he asked as she came alongside him, voice tense, impatient. When she nodded, he said, "Good. Tell your doctors it's about damn time they started using stimpaks on the burn victims. Every time I tell 'em to they give me some high-minded bullshit about why they can't."

"In lieu of an explanation, you mean?" she replied, taking his temper in stride.

"Some of our docs've said there's reason for it," Knight said, "just didn't care to elaborate. So no, not a whole lot of explaining going on."

"But they've said the same thing, haven't they?" Julie asked. "That it's inadvisable to use stimpaks in this instance?"

"That's different," Knight said irritably. "They've got regs to follow. Supply shortages..."

"Well... Not to sound combative, major, but we have some 'regs' of our own. Granted, they have more to do with biological function than supplies..." Getting a prompting look from the Major, she said, "It has to do with the levels of radiation these patients have been exposed to. The kind of rapid tissue regeneration promoted by stimpak use already poses the risk of causing damaged cells to replicate rather than die off, the way they should. It's why using more than five over a short period of time is generally discouraged."

"Something about cancer, wasn't it?"

Julie nodded. "In this instance, the number of damaged cells is far greater than it would be in a healthy individual. Causing those cells to replicate-" She shook her head. "It's been known to induce aberrant tissue growth, rather than promote rapid healing."

"Aberrant tissue growth? What, like tumors?" When Julie gave a slight nod, Knight blanched a little at that. "You serious?" he said. "That quickly?"

"In some cases, yes," she said, a grim expression on her face. "Granted, the tumors don't typically metastasize, but there's always a risk... and with immune systems that are already under incredible strain, it's best to err on the side of caution."

A pause. Then, Knight sighed, and said, "Well... doesn't make me feel any better... but at least I know there's reason for it."

"Are you sure this hasn't been explained to you before?" she asked, curious. "Seems odd that no one bothered to."

"They might've," he said, shaking his head. "Just hard to keep track've all the technical details when you've got little kids begging you to put 'em out of their misery."

She took a moment to absorb that one; as much as she'd seen plenty of dire situations, there were some things she simply wasn't prepared to hear. "I understand," she said after a time. "And I realize what I have to say about it probably doesn't help-"

"No, it does, just..." He paused, and shook his head again. "Been trying to keep pace with all the stories people have about what happened. Try to get it down for posterity, you know? Figured someone's got to." Beat. "Anyway, hearing some've the things you do, it starts to get to you. Whole place is goddamn miserable..."

Another surprise; she would've expected to hear that from one of her own people, not from a commissioned NCR officer. "How do you manage to set aside time for that?"

"Not a whole lot happening around here," he said. "Not too many people that wanna come in except new patients, and a lot've the people who still have their health are looking to get out. Besides, I try to keep it to my off hours."

"I could try to pick up the slack for the time being, if it'd help," she said. "At least, until I can bring someone in who's better suited to archiving this sort of thing."

Though he was reluctant to accept the offer, he did, eventually, though he was quick to add that under no circumstances was he to be kept out of the loop. Anything she took down in regards to the stories people had to tell about the incident would be turned back in to him- for what purpose, he wasn't sure yet.

"I'll be happy to give you copies of whatever I've got," he said, "but we need this on file. Just... don't think I've got the stomach to keep up with it."

"It's thoughtful of you to consider doing it in the first place," she said. "Given that, I don't think anyone would fault you for needing to take a break from it."

He shrugged the compliment off, but thanked her for her offer, all the same, using that as a good place to go elsewhere, leaving Julie to wonder what she'd just gotten herself into. She knew that, in many ways, she was witness to something that deserved her time and attention, deserved something other than numb regard.

This, a long shadow cast by the Great War, was a reminder of what brought them all to this place, of what had shaped the world they presently occupied in more ways than one, wasn't something one could simply shrug off, and consider later. But that didn't make the undertaking any easier.

[...]

One and a half weeks. Felt like it'd been years already, every day presenting its own, unique trials.

Ghost had been warned, plenty of times, that excessive use of Rad-Away could cause hair loss, and that the time it took to flush the system of radiation didn't negate the potential damage that could have been done; some illness was expected. Yes, it was worrisome that both she and Jackson were showing such strong and immediate symptoms, and yes, Jackson's fever had left him in a state of delirium so fierce that he could barely form sentences anymore, but...

"Best we can do is to keep administering anti-radiation meds," Julie, one of the Followers doctors, had told her, having the decency to at least sound apologetic about it.

Ghost had heard of the woman before, but they'd never met until a few days prior; she was the Followers' local administrator, notable for a perpetual mohawk and a seemingly unflappable attitude.

"That's Hungarian, isn't it?" she'd commented when they'd first been introduced, making idle conversation as her blood pressure was taken. "The name."

Julie glanced up briefly from what she was doing, but went quiet for a time to continue taking the readings, listening carefully though her stethoscope. "It is," she said, jotting down a few notes on a medical form. "Don't know many people who can pinpoint it so quickly, though."

"Knew a guy that came to settle in my hometown," Ghost replied. "Same name. Any relation?"

"Depends," Julie said absently, pointedly keeping her attention on her notes. "Where's your hometown?"

Ghost smirked. "You sure you can't guess?"

At that, Julie paused; Ghost could see the younger woman's head tying itself in knots, trying to find a way to avoid the obvious guess. Followers, she'd learned, so politically correct even in this day and age, were easy to trip up with a potentially 'charged' question.

"I'm not that good at guessing games," Julie said with a sheepish smile, quietly getting a read on Ghost's pulse, deftly avoiding the dark, livid splotches that painted the sharpshooter's pale skin.

"Liar," Ghost replied. "You're just itching to say 'Modoc.'"

Julie glanced up for a moment, lips pursing to hide a faint smile. "I'd be wrong, though, wouldn't I?"

As it turned out, she wasn't. The ironic thing, Ghost commented, was that it was her mother, the topsider, that had albinism in her family line; her father, from the Slags, had been 'normal' save for the mutations that had made the community more adapted to living underground. As for Julie, she had no relation to the man Ghost had known growing up.

As easy as it was to make the administrator nervous, at times- and as often as they argued about NCR policy and the like, something to keep Ghost's attention off of her illness- the company was appreciated. Much as the sharpshooter didn't mind Jackson, the man wasn't a particularly interesting conversationalist, even in the best of times. Of late, he was little more than a non-presence in the two-person tent they shared, their beds separated by a couple plastic screens that could be shoved aside every time he felt like talking, though 'talking' hadn't happened much over the past couple days. Ghost had tried to tell herself that it was just the fever, that he'd sleep it off and be fine, but the continued expansion of dark patches along his skin, the fact that they split and festered, that they had to be bandaged and re-bandaged on a daily basis, hadn't boded well for her.

Not that the sharpshooter would ever admit to being worried; not in so many words, at least. She had, however, asked why the radiation meds hadn't been doing their job right, at which point, Julie just shook her head.

"Rad-Away's good, but it's not a cure-all," she said. "It has to bind with the contaminated particles in your system and flush them out, which... can take some time. Taking into account that you were likely exposed to at least five gray-"

"Five what?"

"Gray," Julie said. "It's- a unit of measure used to determine how much radiation has been absorbed by living tissue. Unfortunately, we won't know too much about the dose you took in until we can study a sample of the ground soil, but... that amount, on its own, is just shy of fatal, if left untreated." She paused to carefully examine some of the ulcerations along Ghost's upper arms, a slightly sour expression on her face. "In any event," she continued, attempting to mute the look, "what most people don't realize about using Rad-Away, especially in cases like these is that, if we give you too much at once, we could risk further damage to your skin, and your internal organs, given the way some of those active particles are excreted. The rest... speaks for itself, I think..."

"If you say so," Ghost said, eyebrow raised. "Not really sure I get it, but, not too sure I want to, either."

After fighting another odd look, Julie smiled, the expression faintly sheepish. "It's complicated," she said. "But I can try and explain it another way, see if it makes a little more sense."

"Think I'd rather know why you keep looking like someone's waving a turd under your nose," Ghost said, furrowing her brow.

Julie raised her eyes to the sharpshooter. "It's-" Refraining from saying 'it's nothing,' she paused for a moment, expression turning more somber. "Actually... tilt your head back for a moment," she said, "and open your mouth."

Furrowing her brow, Ghost paused- then did as she was told. Heard the doctor say something under her breath.

"I thought so," she heard the administrator say solemnly, tacitly giving Ghost the all clear to lower her head again.

"What is it?" Ghost asked, meeting the younger woman's eyes curiously.

"The roof of your mouth," Julie said reluctantly. "It's turning black."

"Pretty sure it's not supposed to do that," Ghost said flatly, without inflection.

"No," the administrator replied, shaking her head as she prepared some iodine to swab the sharpshooter's lesions. "No, it's not."

[...]

Two weeks had passed.

Over that time, the fear of additional exposure spread like wild fire, spurred on as they were by the rapid decline of the men, women and children being cared for in the scattered infirmaries. 'Mild' cases of radiation poisoning had become 'severe,' then flat-out fatal, leading many to believe that they were still under threat, regardless of what the geiger counters said.

Many civilians, even some soldiers, too traumatized by what they had seen in the aftermath, had fled the encampment, unwilling to listen to reason. To further persuade those traders the encampment relied upon to provide food and other goods to stay behind, teams of soldiers were sent up to the Outpost, outfitted with heavy equipment and doses of Rad-X for protection, and though they found that little had changed, that radiation levels were minimal, nervousness persisted... nervousness that was reflected back at Hoover Dam, for the exact opposite reason.

Try as she had to leave for the auxiliary outpost on the same night she'd put in her request for a three-day pass, Colonel Moore had been informed by a particularly soused General Oliver that she had to remain behind until the weekend. The officer most capable of taking her place would not, as it turned out, be back until then; had been sent along to McCarran to assist with Hsu's relief efforts for the people in the tent city. Grudgingly, she'd accepted that as the final answer, opting to be 'content' with simply doing her best to stay as up-to-date as possible with any new information coming in from Major Knight. But, as the reports became less and less hopeful, she couldn't help but wonder if she'd missed what little window of opportunity remained.

If it could be called an opportunity.

The day she was able to take her leave without issue, transferring command to her returning subordinate as hastily as possible without completely defying regulations, she had rushed to get a few of her things gathered, put on a change of clothes, and filled out some requisition forms for a few items that would make the trip by vertibird worth the refuel expenditures. All that was left was locating the back-up pilot they'd brought on to do supply runs to the encampment. The pilot had been reluctant to return, giving the same reasons many of the civilians fleeing the area had for his uncertainty, but had been easily strong-armed into giving ground, promising to fly her to the location that evening.

Upon arrival, there was some credence given to the desperate need on the part of civilians to vacate the area; the atmosphere was as somber as it was tense, uncertainty a palpable force. Moore conceded to the possibility that maybe, the sense of it was little more than a projection on her part, but upon looking at the hillside in the fading light of the sunset, she had reason to second-guess that assessment. A civilian- a woman, by the looks of it, though it was difficult to tell from a distance- was laboring ceaselessly to dig up a small plot on the slope leading up to the Outpost, a body wrapped in dusty linens laying by her side. The body wouldn't be alone, by the looks of things; a number of plots- too many- lined the ground, some surprisingly smaller than others.

Children, probably.

As easy as it would have been to become transfixed on the sight, Moore turned from it, making her way into the camp proper. The first thing she noticed- and was inwardly grateful for- was a small, makeshift bar placed in front of one of the tents, a handwritten sign that said 'Drinks 2 Go; Pay and Get Out (ICE IS EXTRA)' placed in front of a dwindling stockpile. Seated behind the liquor stand, a dark-skinned young woman had her feet kicked up on a couple boxes, a magazine open in her lap, her expression- save for a noticeable frown- masked by the bill of her cap.

The people within the encampment, those that claimed this as their temporary home, were scarce. A majority of them, doctors and patients both, were stuck in the infirmaries from day to day, she'd heard, so the lack of activity came as no surprise. It did, however, lend to the atmosphere she'd observed before, mirrored on the faces of those that milled around the area. Some appeared injured, while others looked incredibly ill; among them, very few healthy individuals walked, another reflection of what she'd seen in the reports that had come across her desk. Keeping her focus on finding what passed for a command center to check in with the Major, her eyes alighted upon the one tent that bore the NCR flag, the insignia sun-bleached, material torn and ragged around the edges.

Stepping inside to see if the Major was present, she found that he wasn't. Pausing at the threshold, she could see that the tent had been used for a dual purpose, consolidated into both living and working quarters. Alongside the collapsable metal door leading into the tent sat two temporary desks, one home to a radio, the other to a typewriter. Two small crates set alongside the typewriter worked as makeshift in and outboxes, both of which were empty. To the right of the typewriter, a stack of papers, a holotape player and, unsurprisingly, a half-finished pint of whiskey.

She'd consider politely making comment on dereliction of duty if it seemed like a legitimate problem; these were, after all, his quarters, and at the moment, it was the stack of reports called to her curiosity. Setting down the rucksack that carried what few belongings she brought with her, and picked up the top three sheets to look them over, squinting at some of the more illegible handwriting. Picking up a few more sheets from the stack, she leafed through them, scanning over some of the easier to read entries. Judging by the names and signatures, some of the reports had been filled out by subordinates, though many of the names bore no rank. Glancing down at the papers that remained on the desk and spreading them out slightly, she saw even more handwritten statements, only a scant few from military personnel.

Reports from civilians, apparently. Those that came from Knight appeared to be the highlights of interviews, written partly in shorthand; referred to audio recordings, taken shortly after the blasts had taken place.

She barely got a chance to skim through the actual content when she heard, "What the hell do you think you're doing?" barked from the still-open door, her attention immediately centering on an overwrought young soldier.

[...]

"Major! Hey, major! We got a looter here!"

Julie and Knight both looked up from their brief discussion outside the infirmary Ghost and Jackson resided in, their attention called to the flailing of a young guard at the entrance to the command tent. Looking past the major as he approached the tent, Julie could see a woman stepping out from the folding metal door, her hands raised, an incredulous, if not thoroughly unamused expression on her face. Upon seeing her, Knight had nearly come to a full stop, tension apparent in his shoulders, though the reason for his apprehension wasn't entirely clear. The woman, though commanding a certain presence, wasn't dressed in clothing befitting of a mercenary, a raider, _or_ a politician- worn denim pants, a sleeveless shirt and an open dress shirt overtop- holding only what looked like the reports that had been turned in to the Major held up in her hand, the only weapon she carried holstered at her hip.

"What should I do with her?" the guard asked, glancing towards Knight to see the bemused look on his face. Pausing, the guard frowned; clearly, whatever expression the major wore wasn't the one he'd expected. "What? You know her or something?"

"Well?" the woman asked blandly after a tense silence, favoring Knight with an arched eyebrow. "Go ahead and tell him."

Clearing his throat and shooting the guard with a baleful look, Knight said, "Colonel Moore," in a dry tone, "I'd like you to meet Private Theodore Nelson. Private Nelson-" he offered the younger man a clipped smile, "this is Colonel Moore."

Though Julie shared the guard's surprise, she didn't share his immediate lapse into anxiety. "Jesus-" he said, weapon lowering, hand coming up into an immediate salute. "I'm- I'm sorry, ma'am, I didn't-"

"You were right to be concerned, private," Moore assured him mildly, leaving one of her hands raised to stay any further attempts on the part of the young man to clear his name. "And while normally, I'd commend your diligence, I have things I need to discuss with the major, here. So if you don't mind..."

"Y- yes, ma'am," he said. "Sorry, ma'am. It's, ah... it's a pleasure to meet you, finally. I've heard-"

"I'm sure you have," she said dryly, though she afforded him a subdued smile. "But for the moment, you're dismissed."

As the private hustled off to return to his regular patrols, the two officers talked amongst themselves, giving Julie the chance to look the colonel over. There had been plenty of rumors circulated about the woman, and the reviews had been far from encouraging. Major Kieran had spoken from time to time about working under Moore, had stated on numerous occasions that while the colonel was an incredibly competent commander on the field, her approach to diplomacy often left much to be desired. That much, Julie had come to see first hand, a near-miss with the Kings springing immediately to mind.

Seeing Moore presently, in plainclothes, speaking cordially with the major, even looking over some of the anecdotes Julie herself had taken down from some of the patients in the infirmaries, her curiosity was piqued. Enough that she nearly missed the older woman paying close attention to her, nearly missed the nod in her direction.

"Dr. Farkas?" the major said, waving her over. "You mind coming over here for a second?"

Following the request tentatively, Julie approached the two, her eyes remaining on Moore for the majority of the time. "Something you need, major?" she asked, glancing towards Knight.

"Not at the moment," he said. "Colonel Moore's got a couple questions for you, though."

"Julie Farkas, is it?" Moore said, extending her free hand.

Julie nodded, accepting the colonel's hand in spite of her immediate hesitance. "Yes, ma'am," she said, keeping her tone and expression as neutral as possible.

"I've heard reports about you from Major Kieran," Moore said, "but I don't believe we've met before."

"No," Julie replied, a faint smile on her face, "though not for lack of trying."

"The meetings you tried to arrange?" Moore said. "I received the invitations, but they were passed on to Ambassador Crocker's office at the embassy. Diplomacy is his area of expertise, not mine." Rather than give Julie time to agree, she said, "But, all that aside, I wonder if I might speak to you for a moment?" Glancing towards Knight, she added, "In private, if you don't mind. I'll bring these reports back once I've had some time to look them over."

"Sure," Knight said, nodding. "Take your time. You know where to find me."

As he turned to leave, Moore gestured for Julie to follower her closer to the infirmaries. "I realize," the colonel began, "that we have more to talk about than just our present circumstances, but at the moment, I'm not interested in a political discussion."

"I was never under the impression that you would be," Julie replied dryly, keeping the comment as lighthearted as possible with another faint smile. "What is it you'd like to speak to me about?"

Pausing for a moment, a wry smile of her own briefly crossing her features, Moore sobered, and said, "It concerns one of your patients. Ranger Ghost, to be specific."

"What about her?"

Moore paused, hesitated slightly- and asked, "How's she doing?"

It was Julie's turn to pause, at that, more than able to sense the uncertainty in the colonel's tone- in her expression. "Better than Jackson," she said, "but that may not hold for long."

"But she's conscious?" Moore asked, a little more hastily than perhaps she'd intended. "Able to speak?"

"It's- not comfortable for her," Julie replied. "Parts of her mouth are necrotizing thanks to the proliferation of bacteria... so, fair warning that you'll notice a distinct odor when you speak to her."

"So she's coherent."

"For the moment, yes."

"Could I see her? Or is now a bad time?"

"She was asleep last time I checked on her," Julie replied. "And while normally, I'd recommend letting her rest... well."

"Yes?"

"I'll be blunt with you, colonel," Julie said gently. "She and Jackson both took on a heavy dose of radiation, more than we can really keep up with. I'm not- entirely sure how many days either of them have left, so I'd suggest getting as much time in as you can, if that's your intention."

It was odd, in a way, to see Moore's expression falter, however subtly, a far-off look cast towards one of the many infirmaries. After hearing all the rumors that surrounded the colonel and her reputation, even the slightest display of emotion, however muted, seemed contrary.

"It is," Moore replied eventually, reluctantly returning her eyes to the administrator. "Which tent is she in, by the way?"

"The one you were just looking at," Julie said, gesturing towards the smaller tent. "I... take it she's a friend of yours?"

"It's been a while since we've spoken, but, yes. That's as good a description as any."

An odd answer, but Julie didn't see it fit to pry. "I'm sure she'll be happy to see you, then."

Adopting a rather odd, humorless smile, Moore glanced towards the tent, "We'll see," said without inflection. "Thank you, doctor."

By the time Julie had even thought to say there was no need to thank her, that 'thanks' was the last thing that could be said under the circumstances, Moore had already turned to leave


	5. Just A Matter of Time

[ 5 :: Just A Matter of Time ]

* * *

><p>The question of why acute radiation poisoning had set in so quickly had finally been answered on the night Moore arrived at the camp. A ghoul by the name of Keely, arguably one of the only individuals with the proper skillset that could be sent into the exclusion zone without fear of illness, had been tasked with the job of going in to test the soil.<p>

The scientist had been resistant to going in, at first, for reasons she wasn't completely comfortable giving, had been surprised that her colleagues seemed so utterly ignorance of the obvious. Eventually, she'd pointed out to those pressuring her that she was being asked to revisit what had made her what she was, what had left behind only a ruined world of dead cities and lost civilizations; that this wouldn't be the first time she'd seen the remnants of nuclear fallout. That there were still some people left who remembered the days of the Great War, could picture it like it was yesterday, no matter how many centuries had passed- and that she just happened to be one of them.

It made her surprisingly contemplative in her observations, at times- bitter, at others. "You don't think of soil as having a memory," Keely said in the report she'd recorded, through the use of a portable holotape player, "but it does. Comes in layers... gets buried over time, embeds into the rock, but it's down there. The history of the whole damn Earth is down there..." She went quiet, then, the sound of pages rustling coming through like white noise. "Got a read on more plutonium in this dead zone than you can shake a stick at," she continued, would have sound absent were it not for a hint of resentment, "more than that bomb could've carried. Means it's probably fallout from the Great War come back to bite us in the ass."

She paused again, as if letting whoever was listening absorb the weight of that. "Most of the particles got covered over after all these years, pushed down far enough to make it less dangerous, but that one strike kicked it straight back up into the atmosphere." More rustling sounds followed, then, the sound of a notebook shutting abruptly giving the report an added edge of frustration. "Found some gold particles in some of these samples, too. Don't know how many folks are aware of this anymore, but irradiated gold doesn't decay 'til at least two days after it's sucked up a bunch of neutrons... Made this place ten times hotter than it ever should've been during the time those rescue teams were deployed."

On the effects, she was witheringly blunt. "What we're talking about, here," she said, "is a dose of at least ten gray, give or take... and that's not counting whatever those poor bastards breathed in when they started looking around for folks they could 'save.' All Rad-Away's going to do is prolong the inevitable, and Rad-X isn't worth shit once you've got that kind of debris floating around in your system." A pause. "Means that... the only thing that's gonna come of that rescue effort is the NCR getting the chance to hire a bunch of day laborers on as gravediggers. I know this is the last thing anyone wants to hear, but you're going to have to trust me on this one: everyone in that camp, the ones that don't come out of it with more cancer than they know what to do with... best thing you can do for them is make 'em comfortable. Otherwise, don't kid yourselves... they're all as good as dead."

[...]

That bitter truth was reflected in the auxiliary outpost itself, day in and day out- sometimes expectedly, sometimes not.

Every once in a while, a wail would issue from inside the infirmary, the heartfelt complaint of a patient whose wounds needed to be re-bandaged. From the sound alone, one could almost see the gauze tearing away, see the new layer of raw, red skin left bare, left to react to the cool air, every raised goosebump causing a fresh wave of discomfort.

On nights where the wails were particularly loud, tearing through the camp as if those that inhabited it needed a reminder of where they were, the predators that had avoided stalking the temporary settlement's perimeter responded in a way that hadn't been expected. Riding in on the coattails of the mournful outbursts that rose up from the infirmaries came the signature howl of a coyote, answering the sounds of distress with a cry of its own.

In that, very few wanted to acknowledge how desperate things had become, when the howl of a coyote was more reassuring than the sound of a chopper flying in supplies, or the creak of a brahmin cart. Didn't seem to matter that the animals were probably ignorant of what the shrieks meant, or where they came from. All that mattered was that at least someone, somewhere, was listening in; that the story being told within the encampment wasn't falling entirely on deaf ears, screamed at the backs of those healthy few that were too frightened of what was happening to watch it unfold.

[...]

Night.

At least, she thought it was night; it was always hard to tell through the sedatives. The light was dim, and she could hear the white noise of the generators chugging along outside the tent, feel a synthetic warmth complimenting a cool draft coming in from the tent flap. Then, her head lifted, seemingly of its own volition. A voice, gentle, mild, talked to her, said words she only registered in part.

_You have a visitor_.

Couldn't have possibly been what was meant. She had no family, very few immediate friends that hadn't been killed or reassigned, cut off by the Long 15 crater for years to come. No, her friends were in Baja, fighting the good fight, whatever 'the good fight' was. Something important, at least; something that kept them from arriving in the Mojave with all the other veterans.

Feeling her head lift again, her ailing nerves registered the sensation of cool fabric- gauze, she thought- drawing over them, those clusters that hadn't gone out like flickering lights as soothed as they were agitated. Her body was sluggish to respond to the cue to wince, or groan, and for the first time in a long while, she wished she'd gotten the opportunity to. Fronts didn't matter anymore, facades as cracked as the sores on her lips; reality oozed from every pore, every fissure lancing through necrotic tissue that hadn't yet been sliced away. Probably wouldn't be; there was too much of it to keep up with.

"I always wanted a tan," she remembered telling the Followers' administrator. "A little more color for once, you know? But this," she gestured loosely to the growing patches of deep purple, "is ridiculous."

Like the comment she'd made to Jackson, she didn't find it particularly funny- but it was a release valve all its own. Something to combat the sensation of her bandages shifting over open sores. Hot and sticky, she'd thought, and not the good kind. The kind of hot that came with infection, sticky from the products of immune cells dying in droves. She could recall asking Julie what that was about, why bodies insisted on expelling a jaundice-yellow oil slick when it was feeling exceptionally ornery about an untended wound, and got a lecture on immunology she hadn't expected, one she'd only half-absorbed in her stupor. Something about the fluid being the product of cells that were ill equipped to combat invading organisms. One of the only things she'd taken away from it was the image of hungry little shock troops rushing in to devour their enemies, only because the idea amused her; little shock troops that sacrificed themselves by the hundreds, by the thousands, so that others in their line could report back to their commanders with the invader's signature, and acquire the correct ammunition for the next assault.

The idea stopped being cute when she realized what Julie had implied by the end of that talk, that the microscopic army she pictured wasn't being replenished as quickly as it should have been. Soon, the administrator had indicated, there would be no more white blood cells. The troops wouldn't be getting any reinforcements.

[...]

As she sat by the bedside of the woman she'd come to see, Cassandra read through bits and pieces of the stories Julie and Knight had compiled on the attack, at those times she wasn't staring helplessly at the prone form of someone she'd always remembered as being healthy, vital, full of energy- unwilling to stop fighting even for a gunshot wound. Occasionally, she'd hear Ghost stir from sleep, muttering, sometimes unintelligibly, sometimes cogently, but rarely did it give way to full wakefulness. Initially, she'd been concerned by the sharpshooter's unresponsiveness, by the semi-delirious comments that broke the silence, but the Followers' administrator said it was a normal response to the types of sedatives that had been used to allow for some much-needed sleep.

Try as she might to take some small comfort in that, Cassandra couldn't shake the feeling that Julie was just being kind about it, no matter how blunt she'd been previously. She'd seen the other infirmaries upon arrival, when it was clear Ghost wasn't getting up- had checked in on some of the soldiers that had gone into the exclusion zone, as well, distressed to see that far too many of them were showing the same signs of illness that the two rangers were. There was an answer for why that had been the case, finally, but rarely was there a time when certain death came as a comfort.

For those that suffered, however... Keely's report had put a finer point on it. That doctors, friends, family, would be heartless to keep some of those people tethered to their ruined bodies. That offering a clean solution was better than simply waiting for the inevitable. Cassandra had recoiled slightly at the comment, had briefly considered contacting the scientist's superiors and suggesting that some disciplinary action be taken on the basis of the report's utter lack of professionalism, but she knew the reaction as largely an emotional one. She would have been right to suggest discipline, of course- that kind of demeanor was rarely acceptable from the OSI, or any branch of the NCR, when they worked in conjunction with the military, but the circumstances made it difficult to care about something that seemed, after all was said and done, petty. Worthless.

In the end, it was just another distraction. Something to take her mind off of what she was seeing.

When she'd first walked into the tent Ghost and Jackson occupied, she'd been struck by their appearances, taking some time to let it all sink in; found herself balking at the entrance, held back by the thick scent of decay, her instincts telling her to turn around, and abandon her intentions. She remained, nonetheless, standing there silently as both Keely's words, and the warnings given by the Followers administrator, solidified completely, the smell that permeated the tent reeking of hopelessness.

Both as good as dead.

In her experience, she knew that death was rarely poetic; only on accident was it ever all that heroic, and what she saw in front of her was another cold example of that fact. There was no beauty, nothing divine or intriguing about what she saw in front of her, no underlying metaphor; no point, or greater purpose. Mummified in bandages, hairless, faces covered in gauze save for their noses and mouths, their skin mottled where it wasn't covered, sores weeping into the formerly pristine white of the fabric that covered them, they were simply a testament to what had nearly ushered in humanity's final hours. Left her wondering how many people, in the days following the Great War, were left to look in on scenes just like these, seeing loved ones, acquaintances and strangers unknit by some unseen force.

Catching sight of Ghost's mouth opening to draw breath, she'd seen the black patches that lined her mouth, visible even under the dim oil lanterns. Jackson's was entirely black, his every breath carrying with it the smell of decay, of old, coagulated blood. Fighting the impulse to tell herself she'd gotten the wrong tent, she had approached Ghost carefully, seating herself and looking over the extent of the damage. Even on those portions of skin that weren't covered, she could see dark, livid patches that had broken along the center, issuing up a thick, filmy liquid that had adhered to the bandages.

At least once through the night, Julie had arrived to change both of the rangers' bandages, administering another sedative through the IV that ran into Ghost's arm before she began to cut away the stained strips of gauze.

"I know you're waiting for her to wake up," the administrator said, "but she's refused painkillers... sedatives are the best I can offer to make this more comfortable for her." Ready to draw back some of the dressing, she paused, looking at Cassandra hesitantly. "Are you sure you want to see this?"

"I'll manage," Cassandra said absently, keeping her eyes on Ghost's face for a time, gaze shifting to cast a sidelong glance towards the gauze being drawn away.

Seemed like it'd been years since something had turned her stomach so fiercely. Seeing the some of the skin tearing away from the sharpshooter's arms, she had to force herself to keep her eyes on it, compelled, in the same way Knight had been compelled to gather stories, to keep a mental record of what she was seeing, no matter how nightmarish. It didn't last; emotion, rather than nausea, won out in the end, and Cassandra found herself looking away, unwilling to see what had become of a woman she had once called a close friend, even knowing that what she was witnessing, was something Ghost herself was doomed to see on a daily basis.

It was something she'd kick herself for, up until the point the sharpshooter opened her eyes, when Cassandra herself was more than ready to adjourn to the VIP tent she'd been assigned for her stay, taking with her the sickening images and smells she'd been inundated by; the emotions that had driven her to greater displays of grief than she was used to, even on her own time. She'd almost missed Ghost's gaze coming to rest on her, too tired to register it immediately, but once she had, all thoughts of sleep quickly evaporated.

"When the doc said I had a visitor," Ghost said, her voice ragged, so weak it was nearly unrecognizable, "I told her... she was full've shit." Allowing for a slight smile, she said, "Good to know I was right." The smile faded, then, replaced by what passed for a sobered expression, "Seriously, though," said flatly, "what the hell are you doing here?"

"That's quite a greeting," Cassandra replied, attempting to remind herself that this was what she'd expected. "As for what I'm doing here, I thought that'd be fairly obvious."

"Scaring the piss out've the non-coms, right?" Ghost said. "S'pretty thoughtful of you. God knows they don't have enough to worry about."

Steeling herself against a rather irrational reaction to the prodding, Cassandra did her best to play along instead of going on the defensive, "That's a perk," said dryly, "not a reason," though she could hear the edge in her tone; wished she couldn't. "Much as I know this will come as a shock, the fact of the matter is that I came here to see you."

Ghost gave what sounded like a light snort, her eyes turning to the ceiling of the tent. "Should've figured you'd come sniffing around here for some way to clear your conscience."

"I'm not-" Cassandra paused, and thought better of her rebuttal; now wasn't the time for dodges, and she knew it. "Well. I suppose I am, in a way... but that wasn't my primary motivation."

"Good. 'Cause you'd be wasting your time."

Should have expected that; did, in all honesty, but that didn't dampen the whiplash effect the words had on her. Felt herself withdraw, little by little, unable to stop the recoil entirely- fighting it the only way she knew how. By continuing to talk, no matter her level of discomfort.

"I heard the recording," she said after a lengthy pause. "The report you gave to Major Knight." Glancing down at the papers in her hand, she allowed for another brief silence before returning her gaze to Ghost's ruined face, and saying, "You had to realize there was nothing noble about going in as many times as you did," the voice continued gently, speaking to her as if she wasn't even awake; made her opt to listen, instead of respond. "Thanks to your so-called heroism, we lost more than we gained."

[...]

Ghost tried to ignore the faint smile playing on her lips, force it into the background.

Much as she wanted to retort, opening her mouth left her with the sensation of the lacerations open up along the cracked, dehydrated curves of her lips. Her tongue was sluggish, both it and her upper palate coated in a slick film- one that felt less like saliva and more like something altogether different. At times, it had dislodged, slid down her throat; not mucus, but a thick casing of skin sloughing off her tongue and cheeks. Cellular breakdown, she'd been told. Made her wonder when the rest of her skin would melt off, or if it already had.

"Make it sound like we knew what we were getting into," she said hoarsely. "Hell... way I hear it... the 'go in shifts' thing was your idea. So don't go- giving me shit about it."

"Doesn't change the fact that you two went in more times than you should have."

"Would've ended up the same either way," Ghost reminded her. "You know that as well as I do."

There was no answer to that; the younger woman was grasping at straws, same as she always did when the conversation turned awkward. But still, she persisted, choosing a different topic; another tactic Ghost was decidedly familiar with.

"The doctor that's taking care of you said you're refusing to take painkillers," Cassandra said gently. "Any reason why?"

"Med-X'd knock me out," Ghost said. "Like Jackson."

Jackson, who hadn't moved or spoke in days. Jackson, who only woke up to have the occasional seizure; who lapsed into sleep muttering gibberish. Barely the man he used to be; would never be again, if things played out the way she thought they would.

"The way Julie tells it," Cassandra replied, "Jackson wasn't given anything before he became non-responsive. They've been giving him medication to keep him comfortable, but prior to that, he refused... same as you did."

"What's it matter, then," Ghost said, pausing to take a slow breath, "if I do or don't... when it's gonna end the same?"

"That's a bit fatalistic, isn't it?" Cassandra said incredulously. "Or do you mean to imply that you'd rather spend your last days knowing what shitting out your insides actually feels like?"

Ghost nearly smiled at that. _Of course not._ The words echoed between her ears, but she couldn't be sure she'd said them.

Hearing Cassandra say, "Next time they offer you something, I think you should consider taking it," after a lengthy pause, she figured she hadn't.

In a way, the words, the demeanor- they were foreign. A little unexpected. To Ghost, the assertions, the uncharacteristic swearing; she knew, at least from experience, that this was the younger woman's version of concern, of uncertainty- grief, maybe- but at the moment, knowing that... didn't make it any more palatable. Rheumy eyes flickered towards the other woman, then, gaze coming into focus on a figure, memory filling in the blurred swaths of pale skin and chestnut hair.

"What are you- pushing for, exactly?" Ghost said irritably.

"I've just heard- what some of the survivors were saying before they died. About what happens... how this plays out without assistance. I'd rather not see it end that way for you."

Ghost snorted, offering another faint smile. "Then why the hell'd you come here?" she said dryly. "Suppose it could be something you get off on, but I always figured you for- having a little more subtlety than that."

"Good to know you haven't lost your sense of humor," Cassandra remarked in a similar tone, "but this isn't a joke."

"You don't say," the sharpshooter replied, a note of resentment coloring her words. "Neither's... sayin' I should let 'em put me to sleep like a goddamn pack brahmin."

"Don't put words in my mouth," Cassandra said flatly. "All I meant was that there's no reason to put yourself through this if you don't have to."

"Amounts to the same thing," Ghost said, echoing the younger woman's tone.

A long, tense silence hovered between them; gave Ghost's eyes the time they needed to let the other woman's face come into focus. Expression was stern, exasperated- but even in the dim lighting, it was obvious that those eyes were bloodshot.

"You been crying?" Ghost asked, mildly surprised to see signs of it.

"No," came the indignant answer, defensive enough to be confirmation.

"Yes you have," Ghost said. "Always were a goddamn liar when it came to that sort'a thing..."

"Go fuck yourself," Cassandra said under her breath, head turning as if that could somehow mask the effect. Turning back to Ghost, she said, "Doesn't matter, if I was or I wasn't."

More swearing; combined as it was with a raise of her hand to swipe at her eyes, she was only confirming, time and time again, the depth of the burden the situation had placed on her.

"It matters," Ghost said, offering a lopsided smile. "Hell, don't think- I've ever seen you do that before."

"Just... drop it, alright?" Cassandra snapped, though she kept her voice low. "Or at least have the decency to keep quiet about it."

"I got... shitting out my entrails to look forward to, remember?" Ghost croaked out, her smile getting wider, though the good humor drained rapidly from her face, replaced as it was with a wry brand of resignation. "S'ides... right now, I don't got time... don't have any reason to hold back with you."

Another silence.

"That's not much different from your usual," Cassandra observed gently, reigning herself in admirably. "Might be one of the reasons I missed you in the first place." Ghost didn't respond to that; irritation and gratitude in equal measure coming to the fore. So many responses to say to that, all of them petty. "Why is this so important?" the younger woman continued, removed tone she'd used earlier. "Hanging on like this. You'll be delirious by the end of it."

"If it pisses you off," Ghost said wryly, "I'm all for it."

Cassandra snorted. "You've done enough of that to last a lifetime," she commented gently. "Not sure if I should take it as a slight or a compliment that you'd consider that motivation enough to put yourself through hell, but if you think it's worth it..."

"Honey... gettin'- a rise out of you? ...Fuckin' priceless. Always been worth it."

"Then I'm thrilled to be of service," Cassandra deadpanned, then lapsed into another brief silence.

Ghost could tell the younger woman was considering other plans of attack, as she always did. Wasn't in any way surprised when the earlier line of questioning returned, though it clawed at her in ways she hadn't expected.

"Is it that taking the treatments would mean taking the easy way out?" Cassandra said, finally. "Is that what's bothering you about it?"

Ghost only hoped that the look she shot in the other woman's direction was as stern as she hoped it would be. "Goddamn, will you drop it already?" she said lowly. "And so what-" a pause; a breath; the ache in her throat adding to the growl in her voice, "so what if it is, anyway?"

"You're not even going to consider-"

Ghost shot the other woman another sharp look, "No," said louder than she thought herself capable. Taming her voice after an ache lanced through her chest, she said, "Listen... I get- what you're trying to do... and I get why. But this isn't your call. It's mine." She paused, then, turning her eyes back to the ceiling. "Not saying I don't appreciate the visit an' all, but," she said lowly, "I think you'd better leave. Got- no use for this kinda bullshit right now."

Another silence.

"Fine," Cassandra said, the sound of chair legs scraping over the sandy floor letting Ghost know that her advice had been heeded. "But I'll be back to check in on you later."

To that, Ghost didn't reply; let the younger woman leave without so much as another word.

[...]

Later that night- must have been early morning by the time she heard it, well before sunrise- the only other visitor the tent had was of another sort entirely. Jackson, walled off though he was from her by several thick sheets of plastic, had started to choke, the wretched sounds pulling Ghost out of a restless state of half-sleep. He'd been unresponsive for the past few days, coming in and out of a coma to a state of delirium; the poor guy barely knew where he was.

Seemed he wouldn't have to wonder for long.

As she listened to him struggling hard to breathe, she knew full well that he'd reached the end of the line. She was too weak to call for the doctors, and it was doubtful they'd hear her anyway; Julie was undoubtedly asleep, and the rest were far too overwhelmed by the number of patients to notice one of their terminal cases coming to a close. Then came the sounds of thrashing- a seizure, maybe- the man's body refusing to give in, struggling against the inevitable until finally, at long last, he went still. Quiet.

Wouldn't be the first time she'd shared close quarters with the dead, either out of necessity or ignorance... but this was different. It was a clear signal of what was waiting for her, right around the bend. Knowing that, unable to escape from that reality, Ghost closed her eyes, and did her best to will away the dread that settled in the tent, unable to sleep.

It would be well over an hour before Jackson's body was removed from the tent- more than enough time for Ghost to understand, without question, what her own end would amount to.

It was just a matter of time


	6. A Special Occasion

[ 6 :: A Special Occasion ]

* * *

><p>The dead and the dying, warmed by the tireless work of the generators placed around the camp, were spared the cold snap that came that night. Among the healthy individuals that occupied the auxiliary outpost, only the doctors working the late shift were given some method of staving off the chill; the others were left to their own devices.<p>

The mess tent, outfitted with a single stove at its center, became a place for people to congregate, to get away from the abnormally bitter air, the majority seated as close to the sole source of heat as the rows of tables allowed for. Some had come to the tent to have their drinks and read, a couple soldiers who had long since gone off duty laying their heads down on their arms to catch a quick nap they weren't about to get otherwise, too exhausted to be roused by the chatty cardplayers closest to the stove. They only stirred when the rickety, makeshift door that lead into the tent was opened, the stiff breeze each new arrival let in reminding everyone inside of the reason they'd decided to flock here in the first place.

Colonel Moore, weary from both the trip, and the unrelenting chill, was one of the later arrivals. Showing up well past midnight, a good hour after her talk with Ghost had concluded and several failed attempts to sleep had followed, she seated herself a short distance from the quartet conversing over what looked like a casual game of poker. Setting a mug containing several stiff shots of bourbon down in front of her, the book she carried with her opened up and placed alongside it, she settled in, relieved to discover that either the group didn't recognize her, or didn't care that she was among them. Not a one had looked overtly nervous, nor had they made attempts to pretty up their discourse in her presence. That alone, she would later acknowledge, had made the decision to forego sleep entirely worth it.

It wasn't often that she was privy to honesty among her subordinates. Even in a relaxed atmosphere, people were determined to be on their best behaviour, frightened by the prospect of having their words, or actions, brought up to them in the form of a disciplinary action. The isolation was inherent through the chain of command, and necessary at times, but on a night like tonight, she found that isolation unpalatable, to a degree where even listening to the conversation nearby was strangely comforting.

The first comment to catch her attention was one that she'd heard was a rarity since the bombs fell; very few wanted to be reminded of what had happened, wanted to put as much distance between themselves and circumstance as they were able. That she happened to be in the presence of an individual that had no such inclination was oddly refreshing, as, she found, was his take on matters.

"Always thought my 'being present for history' moment'd be at the Dam," the older African American man- a sergeant that went by the surname Klein- said, thumbing the cards in his hand idly. "Didn't think it'd be here. And it's a hell of a thing, isn't it? Being around for something like this."

The woman alongside him, whom Moore knew as the bartender, Lacey, turned her attention away from her cards. "Don't know if I'd call sitting around a mess tent in the middle of the night a 'hell of a thing,'" she said, looking none too interested in hearing his correction, "but, hey, if you say so..."

"Just didn't think I'd witness anything like it in my lifetime," he said. "I mean... shit, we've seen the results of the bomb every day of our lives, just not a whole lot've the _immediate_ results."

"Never fired a Fat Man before, I take it?" Lacey said dryly.

He shook his head. "Never wanted to, either."

"And I s'pose this is where you tell us why?" the young soldier across from him- a private, Moore saw, one she'd later learn was named Macklin- said impatiently. "Don't get me wrong, you've got me on the edge of my seat, here, but I'd be a hell of a lot more interested if you'd been doing something other'n feeling up your cards for the past five minutes. You gonna keep this going, or just wax philosophical for the rest of the night?"

"Was thinking I'd go on to quote some Kant for flavor," Klein replied dryly, unruffled, his reference sailing over Macklin's head, "but instead, I'll just raise you two and spare you the lecture," four caps tossed into the small, but growing pile at the center of the table.

Lacey squinted. "Thought you guys said this was a 'friendly' game," she said, eyeing Klein.

"Just made it two caps friendlier," Klein said mildly.

"'Friendlier,' my ass," Macklin muttered. "Bear's probably not gonna shit for weeks, and he's bettin' like he's got cash to spare."

"Heard Knight say they're coughing up for the enlisted, at least," Lacey remarked, "so you're not shit outta luck just yet. Soon, though."

"You serious?" Macklin asked, eyebrow raised. "Or are you just tryin' to dog me into throwing down more caps?"

"Little've both," Klein remarked, the comment earning a wry smirk from Lacey. "Guess most've the officers've got enough savings that they're making sure the enlisted get what's owed to 'em from the last pay drop."

"Oh," Dr. Richards- one of the NCR medics in from Forlorn Hope- said, both his tone and expression speaking of a man for whom sarcasm came easily, "being charitable, are they? I could've sworn that kind of thing had been outlawed by now." A pause, as Macklin checked, the doctor's eyes scanning his hand idly. "I don't suppose they set any of that money aside for the relief effort, either."

"Not to put too fine a point on it, Richards," Klein said, "but they're not lookin' at this as relief anymore. Just maintenance."

Richards just shook his head, but didn't argue the point.

"Was over at the infirmary the other night, by the way," he continued, "seeing how things're going. I gotta say, whole place looks like something out've a nightmare..."

"Keep your nightmares to yourself, Klein," Lacey muttered, interrupting any further thoughts he had on it, her eyes fixed on her cards. "I don't wanna hear about 'em."

"Best not to kid yourself," he said, shaking his head. "This is everyone's nightmare. Just not one anyone wants to talk about. Only time they think about it is when they're trying to figure out ways to forget it ever happened."

"Don't s'pose it ever occurred to you that there's a reason for that," Macklin said under his breath, shifting in his chair as one of the napping soldiers opened the door to leave, the cool blast of air making everyone in the tent tense briefly.

"Oh, I know there's plenty've reasons," Klein said, "just don't think any've 'em are good enough. Seems to me, if we're gonna take anything out've this whole goddamn mess, it's the idea that forgetting hasn't done us any favors."

"Mn," was the only response Lacey had to that, her attention turned to the man across from her. After a moment of silence, she said, "What's the word, Richards?"

"I think the word's 'raise,'" Richards said after a moment's consideration, "by two," the addition of several caps causing the more irritated of the quartet to slump a little. "Might help to know that you're not the first person to say that, by the way," he afforded Klein. "There's a lot of chatter around the camp about one've the higher-ups coming in to see how things are going. Word is, Major Knight's pet project even got a nod or two."

"Thought he passed that off to-" Klein began, though he was abruptly cut off by Macklin.

"Wait," the younger man said, brow furrowed. "Woah, hold up a second. The brass is here? Anyone know who it is?"

"Colonel Moore," Lacey replied. "Haven't seen her around, myself, just heard Knight say she was in the neighborhood. Means you shouldn't hold your breath on any feel-good projects getting the green-light."

"I don't know," Klein said. "Even she might change her tune after she gets a good look at the infirmaries."

"Don't know that I could say the same for you, though," Richards commented to Lacey. "Did you really just call it a 'feel-good project?'"

Lacey arched an eyebrow. "That's what it is, isn't it?" she said blandly. "Look, I get why he's doing it, I just don't know what the hell he thinks the NCR'll use it for."

"Historical record," Klein said. "Word of warning, maybe. I mean... too little, too late if it's a warning, but it's good someone's doing it."

"More than I can say for someone whose only interest lies in guarding her liquor supply," Richards said pointedly.

"Guess you missed the part where I handed over half my inventory to the cook," Lacey said, visibly irritated. "Shit, I've done more this place than any've you have."

"Mn... yes," Richards said, "since tending to the sick and the wounded often takes a backseat to keeping the populace as tanked as possible."

"Alright, aside from you," Lacey corrected, allowing him at least that, "but that's besides the point. Listen, just 'cause I haven't sat around watching some poor bastard puke his guts out while his skin's falling off- doesn't mean I don't give a damn about what's happening here."

"Think I'd be having more fun if that's what I was doing," Macklin grumbled. "Seriously, Klein, are you gonna bet or pass?"

"You that anxious to lose your money, Macklin?" Klein asked blandly, eyebrows arched as he surveyed his cards. "Call."

Macklin went quiet, tapping his cards against the table top. "Need to get outta this fuckin' place," he said under his breath, his leg bouncing restlessly under the table, one hand raising to rest his cheek against his palm. "Even the goddamn card games are getting depressing."

"For you," Lacey said with a wry grin, "they're always depressing. I'll check, by the way."

Macklin snorted, taking up his beer to down a couple mouthfuls from it.

"You know what else is depressing?" Richards remarked, keeping his eyes on his cards. "Not getting any visitors. There's also the prospect of having half the civilians abandon you because they can't stand to look at you, but I suppose that's hardly worth mentioning.."

Lacey paused. "Are you always this passive aggressive?" she asked the doctor blandly. "Or is this a special occasion?"

"Sure seems like a special occasion to me," Richards said mildly.

"A 'special occasion' that might not've happened if we'd paid a little more attention to the silos those missiles came from," Klein commented, deftly diffusing the escalating tensions between the Follower and the bartender. "Check."

"Have you heard if the colonel's got any guesses about who might be responsible for the launch?" Richards asked, attempting to smooth back his raised hackles by diverting his attention, his eyes on Klein.

"You're asking me?" Klein said, eyebrow raised. "I didn't even know she was here 'til you mentioned it. Seems to me they'd be looking for someone with the technical expertise to pull it off, though."

"Brotherhood, maybe?" Macklin asked.

Klein shook his head. "Brotherhood's gone," he said. "Heard from a buddy of mine that they finally tracked 'em back to the spot they used to get sighted."

"Think I heard about that," Lacey said. "That the place that had all those sandstorms?"

"Not anymore," Klein said. "All they saw was black smoke coming out've a row've vents in the ground. Guess the whole thing was artificial from the get-go." He shrugged. "Either way, seems they're outta the picture, so I wouldn't bet on any of them having anything to do with it."

"Unless one of the survivors decided it was high time for a little payback," Macklin said.

"Pretty sure it wasn't us that did 'em in," Klein replied.

"Besides, using that logic," Richards said, "you may as well include the Enclave on the list of likely suspects."

"Not really their style," Klein said.

Richards shrugged. "Not really the Brotherhood's style, either," he said. "Either way, be nice to know who was behind it."

"Not sure it matters right now," Klein said. "Not unless the boys running radar checks see anything new. Still, the brass'll probably send someone in to see what's what, but I don't give 'em good odd've finding anything-"

"-or surviving," Macklin said grimly.

Klein grunted. "Should've put those silos under lock'n key the moment we had the chance. No reason to keep 'em up and running, and I know OSI's got a few guys who know a thing're two about disarmament."

"Not that disarmament was ever one of the NCR's top priorities," Richards said.

"Can't really blame 'em for that," Lacey said absently. "We had Legion crawling up our ass back when we still had a hold on the Divide. And, hell, maybe Kimball was planning on adding 'em to the stockpile. Use 'em to scare the crap out've anyone giving us the stink eye."

"Awfully cynical for someone who didn't wanna hear any talk've nightmares," Klein commented wryly.

"Never claimed to be an optimist," Lacey retorted, eyebrow raised.

"You don't suppose they were really looking to use them, do you?" Richards said. "Assuming they could reliably enter the facilities, of course..."

"It's possible," Klein replied, giving a faint shrug of his shoulders. "Little too possible, if you ask me." He shook his head again. "Like I said, should've had one've the OSI's tech monkeys scramble the launch codes."

"You know," Richards said, "this isn't the first time I've heard you mention them. And you seemed to know that ghoul that came through here. Keely, was it?" Klein nodded. "So tell us a story, Klein. Did you pull guard duty for one of their facilities, or what?"

"Not much of a story," Klein said. "Used to be OSI before I enlisted."

Lacey's eyebrows raised. "Should be calling you 'Professor,' then," she said, bemused. "How the hell'd you become a grunt?"

"Didn't feel like I was making much of a difference while I was with 'em," Klein replied, not bothering to hide the wry grin on his face, "figured joining the army might be a way to change that," the comment earning several guffaws from the people around him.

"And how's that working out for you?" Richards asked, his amusement carrying with it a note of bitter experience.

"About as well as that hand's working out for junior, here," Klein said. "You gonna call or what?"

After a lengthy silence, the younger man sneered. "Fuck it," he said, slapping his cards down on the table. "I fold."

"Wise man," Lacey said as Macklin got to his feet. "You turning in?"

"Yeah," Macklin said. "Go find yourselves another chump to scalp."

"Think we're outta luck, there," Richards commented. "Last I checked, they don't make them much chumpier than you."

"Oh, hey, doc, I forgot to mention," Macklin said, tugging a heavier coat around his shoulders. "Go fuck yourself."

"Actually, you didn't forget," Richards remarked as the younger man stalked off. "But thanks for the reminder."

"Chumpier?" Klein repeated after a moment's pause, grinning. "Is that a word?"

"It is now," Richards said. "You guys want to keep going after this hand, or are we calling it?"

"No way I'm going to sleep yet," Lacey said.

Klein nodded. "Same."

"Guess that means we need a new player," Richards said, glancing in Moore's direction.

Tuning into the fact that she was finally being acknowledged, Moore raised her head to look away from a book she'd barely been reading in lieu of some much-appreciated eavesdropping, only too aware of the three sets of eyes on her.

Glancing towards the trio, she said, "Yes?"

"Care to join the drum circle?" Klein said. "Low-stakes. We'll go easy on you."

Though her knee-jerk response was 'no,' Moore found herself inclined to do the opposite. As interesting as it was to listen in on them, the prospect of engaging in conversation- as little more than just another cardplayer- sounded entirely too appealing, at the moment.

It seemed only too fitting, then, that the very instant she opened her mouth to state her acceptance of the offer, one of the Followers' doctors rushed into the mess tent. He was panting, looked as though he'd practically run across the entire camp, his last couple steps taking him to Richards's side.

"Ranger tent," he wheezed. "Got a problem."

Richards raised- and Moore had to fight the urge to do the same. "Which one?"

"Jackson," the Follower said. "Dead. Got a patient in another infirmary- having seizures. Need some help."

"How long's he been dead?" Richards asked.

The Follower shook his head. "Don't know," he said, still breathing heavily. "Long enough. Might compromise the other patient- if we don't get him out of there."

"Marvelous," Richards said under his breath. "Well, ladies and gentlemen," he said dryly, placing his cards face-down on the table, "this is where I bid you adieu. If you're still here when I get back, we'll finish off this round and call it a night."

He didn't wait for a response; instead, he rushed out the door, barely getting his coat on before stepping out into the bitter night air


	7. Compassion Fatigue

**[** 7 **::** Compassion Fatigue **]**

* * *

><p>Stepping out of the mess tent, not long after the doctor had taken his leave, a quick, non-committal excuse given for her departure, Cassandra felt, if only for a moment, like she'd stepped into another world. The comfort of lively voices, the warmth of the surroundings, and the strained camaraderie gave way to the cold void of the Mojave wastes, lit silver-blue by a full moon. The camp was desolate, the soldiers that walked the perimeter providing the only sign of activity, silhouettes against a tranquil backdrop, still and silent but for the constant breeze that combed over the desert terrain.<p>

Taking a moment to reconcile the profound disparity between the environment she'd left, and the one she'd ventured into, she found herself struck by how reminiscent the panorama surrounding her was of placid, snow-covered valleys she'd seen in photos, the cold allowing for the illusion to take root. Like the conversation that came before, it provided a peculiar sense of comfort, as if the land itself was acknowledging that something was terribly wrong, altered itself to match what had come to pass. In any other case, she would have dismissed the thought as embarrassingly whimsical- but as she saw two medics hauling Jackson out of the infirmary he'd occupied, still resting in his gurney, she allowed herself to hold on to it.

As they passed her by, moving towards the foot of the hillside, she could see that his eyes were still open, rheumy, a look of uncomprehending, animal anxiety plain beneath his bandages. Blood spattered the yellowed gauze around his lips, thick chunks of tissue mixing with vomit to ooze sluggishly from a mouth left gaping; left her to wonder if he'd choked to death. The sheets around his pelvis were bloodied, a single, large stain turned black under the pale silver light, the red hues only visible beneath the oil lanterns that lined the vacant pathways between tents.

She followed the progress of the medics as they took the ranger's body to the hillside, dimly acknowledging that what they were doing had become its own peculiar ritual. Recalled hearing from someone- Julie, Knight, it didn't seem to matter anymore, who the source was- that it had become a common practice, setting the bodies aside for those few that were willing to dig the graves to tend to in the morning, before the temperature rose and ripened the foul scents exuded by the contaminated corpses. That thought alone broke the illusion, reminded her that just over the mountain pass lay a graveyard too vast to comprehend.

A place where, for the near-dead, even the most dispassionate hand would have at least been a welcome distraction from the massive crater, and the many scattered bodies, that served as their only companions.

Pulled out of her contemplations by the insistent winds that raked through the tent city, Cassandra turned to look down the pathway to the tent she'd intended to go to; caught sight of the medics that had tended to Jackson rushing back to the larger infirmary; watched them bypass the small shelter they had only just extracted his body from. Their dismissal, the fact that they didn't appear a second time to approach the tent, gave her reason to start moving towards it herself, though she was given pause upon reaching the opened entrance, the reason for the medics' inattention as clear as the fetid air wafting from the small enclosure.

Julie, it seemed, had been summoned to see to Ghost personally, giving reason for the retrieval of Doctor Richards, her departure necessitating additional assistance for whatever new tragedy was taking place in the infirmary.

Faced with a slew of rationales for turning and leaving- that she'd get in the doctor's way if she stuck around, that Ghost's insistence that she leave earlier meant she wouldn't be welcome, among others- she found that none of them held up to the real reasons behind her reluctance.

In this case, she acknowledged inwardly, the sole reason lay in her unwillingness to allow a relative stranger to see through an airtight facade, an impulse she would have followed in any other instance.

This time, she didn't; in a place where the scent of raw sewage and tissues gone to putrescence lingered around them, pride no longer seemed that important.

[...]

Like many others around the tent city, Julie had found herself unable to rest comfortably, the temperature making it difficult to remain asleep for any longer than a few minutes at a time. More than once, she'd gotten out of the cot she slept in to jot down a note about acquiring more blankets from nearby towns, working her way through the roster of Followers present to see who she could give the job to. At those times she wasn't reviewing the schedules of the doctors and caretakers present, however, she was listening to the holotape player Knight had given her, to review recordings he'd only catalogued in his reports, ones that lacked any decent summary.

She had found herself strangely resistant to it, even after accepting the job in the first place. As much as she fancied herself as being more than capable of handling the worst the wasteland could throw at her, what she heard was completely removed from atrocities that seemed almost mundane by comparison. Humanity could tear itself to pieces, violate one another in ways that were getting more creative by the day- but something about this seemed different, something she felt on a level so visceral it surprised her.

Maybe it was the magnitude of what had happened. Maybe it was the grisly nature of the stories the survivors told, singularly uniform, even in their variations, littered with descriptions of blackened corpses whose eyes shone like polished glass; of a young man's attempt to help his wife raise to her feet, only to pull the skin of her blistered arms away completely; of a charitable offering of water to a man desperately dehydrated ending in his death when he'd indulged himself too quickly. Maybe it was the stories some of the people she and her subordinates tended told her, about small groups of men and women wandering in stunned silence, wordless, aimless, moving like stunned cattle, nonfunctional but for their desire to keep walking.

That recollection alone had come up so many times, seen by so many different people; called to mind a vivid set of images that all revolved around a witless funeral procession, robbed of meaning, or sentiment.

These were the stories of the great war, not of present time. But here again, the cycle was just repeating itself, the remnants of humanity's most egregious errors poisoning those that might have otherwise lived.

To Julie, that was the worst part of it; knowing that it wasn't just the present the crisis that was laying the patients in the tent city to waste. It was the past, as well; a past they all saw reflected back at them whenever they entered the infirmary, or looked to the horizon to see another unearthly sunset. The stories, the environment, the rapid fatality rates... they were all calling to mind notions of futility, highlighting just how ineffectual she and her staff were, how unprepared they'd been for the disaster. Struck again with that fatalistic line of thought, she opted to join the doctors working the overnight shift in the infirmary, do something constructive with her time that didn't revolve around pondering the inevitable.

Word of Jackson's passing had come almost immediately upon her arrival, and for a moment, she couldn't help but feel as though some unseen force was attempting to solidify the thoughts she'd tried to set aside by lending her time to the patients that were still alive. That by going to the bedside of a woman she knew was condemned to die to make sure everything was alright, the situation had taken on a personality all its own, spitefully reminding her, and all the other relief workers present, of the fact that there would be no saviors here- only witnesses.

What hit her first upon entering the tent was the stench. Jackson had been left for long enough that he'd voided, the medics told her, the remaining epithelium of his intestines shed, necrotized by overabundant bacteria that had grown out of control as his immune system shut down, refusing to be brought to heel by the antibiotics they'd given him. It forced the medics to move not only him, but his gurney; forced her to keep both the entrance to the tent, and the small window across from it, open, allowing for a breeze to dissipate the stomach-turning odor.

"I'm sorry," had been the first thing she'd said to Ghost, the moment they were alone. "I should have checked on you two when I started my shift."

"Probably," Ghost said, displeasure audible in her tone, her voice halted, the pacing of her words noticeably stunted by discomfort. "But I guess- you've got better things to do, right?"

Julie didn't bristle at that, but she didn't know what to say, either, frowning slightly as she took the woman's pulse. "We've got a lot going on at the moment," she conceded after a moment's silence, jotting down to the information in the medical log, "but the apology still stands. Someone should have been here sooner."

Ghost snorted by way of response; didn't seem to feel like giving the administrator much ground on that one.

That alone had a peculiar effect- made the personality Julie had observed in the situation just moments before take on a new perspective, though her contemplations on that were interrupted by the sound of a familiar voice, "Doctor?" spoken evenly, the tone clipped and withdrawn enough to let her know who it was before she even looked around.

Cassandra Moore, similarly stricken with insomnia. The colonel's presence came as a surprise, though Julie knew it shouldn't have; that it was on the basis of reputation alone that the woman's apparent concern seemed contradictory. It wasn't, though; she'd seen Moore stay at Ghost's bedside well into the night, going over reports and occasionally checking to see if the ranger had awakened; had seen the honest concern in those eyes every time the sharpshooter began to cough, or labored to breathe. Tonight, that concern was there in spades, even though Moore had gone to great lengths to maintain an emotional distance; a distance that might not have been so profound if she hadn't been in the presence of someone who doubted, or might one day capitalize on the sincerity of those emotions, even fleetingly, Julie realized.

Thinking back on the impatience expressed by one of her own subordinates, of his lack of sympathy, upon her arrival, Julie wondered if perhaps, even she had preconceptions that required some re-evaluation. And while the notion didn't sit well with her, it was something she'd have to contemplate at another time.

"I don't mean to get in your way," the colonel had said, remaining where she was for a moment, tone even, the emotional cues the administrator had seen tempered, "but I'd appreciate it if I could talk to Ghost for a moment."

"If you can stand the smell," Ghost commented flatly.

"Come on in, colonel," Julie said, resolved to take the third dig of the evening in stride. "I won't be here for too long. I just need to check her vitals."

Entering into the tent, Moore kept her hand raised, brow furrowed as she looked around the small tent, noting the absence of the gurney. "Good god, that's really appalling, isn't it? What the hell happened in here?"

"Y'mean- aside from Jackson buying the farm?" Ghost replied blandly. "Might be a good time to r'member..." she paused, then, swallowing gingerly, as if to stave off another cough, "what you said earlier- 'bout crapping out your insides."

Moore turned her attention to Julie, then, eyebrow raised.

"Jackson's GI tract was half-rotted by the time he died," Julie said, affecting a more clinical tone. "Given the length of time he was here, it's safe to assume-"

"That's more than enough detail, doctor," Moore said flatly, "thank you," not even bothering to hide the look of distaste, hand raised in a cease and desist gesture.

"Wouldn't- be the first time he was left like that," Ghost sneered, pausing to cough, a trembling hand raised feebly to cover her mouth, the wet, conductive sound in her throat giving reason to believe she'd brought something up. Sure enough, her hand withdrew to show a spatter of blood along the bandages. "Fuckin' lovely," she said under her breath, bloodied hand dropping back to the sheets.

"Is that the first time she's done that?" Moore asked the administrator, brow furrowed.

"'She's' brought up enough," Ghost said sarcastically, though the strain in her weakened voice was only too apparently, forcing another halted pause, "-to make a brand new hat," jerking her hand away as Julie tried to examine it, though the reaction was sluggish. "Hands off, doc," she said irritably. "Could use a moment- without you r'anyone else getting their paws on me."

Julie paused- and relented, at that, hands withdrawing. "I'd like to do a more thorough exam, whenever you're through," she said gently, "but I'll leave you two alone for the moment."

"Real kind've you," Ghost muttered, coming just short of saying 'get the hell out'; in truth, her expression said it for her.

"Will you be in the infirmary?" Moore asked. "I can come get you when we're through."

"If you could," Julie said, withdrawing from the gurney, "it'd be appreciated."

Though 'appreciated' might not have been the right word for it.

[...]

Whatever exchange they'd had, it had lasted all of fifteen minutes- and upon seeing Moore arrive at the infirmary, Julie was left to wonder what it had entailed. The colonel was brusque, unwilling to answer questions, and quick to depart when she'd told the administrator that it was over; and Ghost, abrupt and angry when last they spoke, seemed almost at ease. It was the fact that she didn't say so much as a single word that raised the sense of curiosity, though there were no questions asked in regards to the reasons behind it.

So far as Julie was concerned, she had lost the right to inquire- though the gravity of what might have taken place stuck with her through the remainder of the evening.

[...]

Daybreak.

The remnants of a cold January night gave way to a brisk morning, the tent city filled with the white noise of generators supplying heat to the makeshift infirmaries, dulling the muted sounds of idle, inconsequential chatter. Soldiers returning from another monotonous night of guard duty went immediately to the mess tent to pick over what little remained of the breakfast served, wolfing down their meager dinners before turning in to get some much-needed sleep. Doctors, weary from too many sixteen hour days, occasionally stopped by to get some food for themselves when they weren't napping, doing their best to relax between emergencies, those that were ensured some legitimate downtime- those few that had few qualms about indulging in some artificial stress relief, at least- lingering around the makeshift liquor stand in the hopes that Lacey was somewhere nearby.

For the first time in months, the sky was an overcast grey, the veil of cloud cover painting the sun a cold white when it was visible. So used to the harsh rays of the sun, day in and day out, it was a sight Moore would have normally appreciated, would have happily greeted as she stepped out of her tent, but the desaturated greys and browns of the landscape came as an unwelcome sight; muted, washed out, familiarity turned dull and blunted. Another reflection, more honest than the seemingly foreign environment she'd witnessed the night before, of the apathy in the camp; of the burial she made her way to the hillside to witness.

In any other instance, much as she hated to admit it, her attendance wouldn't have seemed that important. She knew, in part, that it wasn't Jackson himself that she was concerned with; instead, it was the recognition of who would soon follow him into death that brought her here. Seeing only the discarded shovel at the foot of the hill, the woman that had taken it upon herself to complete the burials nowhere to be found, she felt an irrational wave of dismay, coupled as it was with anger turned inward.

Her reasons for being present in the first place, she knew, were disingenuous, even selfish, briefly acknowledged as she came to a stop at the edge of the only fresh plot she saw, the soiled mattress that Jackson had slept on discarded none too far away from the grave.

It left her wondering if the man would take kindly to knowing what he represented. That she was here to prepare, not mourn the newly dead; she had little recognition for, or knowledge of the man buried at her feet. Inwardly, she resolved to rectify that when she returned to the Dam; request Jackson's file and learn a thing or two about him. Make it so he was less anonymous than the shallow, unremarkable grave made him out to be.

"Colonel?"

Turning her head to look over her shoulder, Moore saw the Followers' administrator flanking her. It took her a moment to recognize the younger woman, the trademark mohawk allowed to fall to one side of her face where it hadn't been pulled back. It didn't come as much of a surprise that one's normal grooming habits were abandoned; little was done for the sake of appearances around the camp.

"Sorry if I'm interrupting," Julie continued, tentative, "but... do you have a moment?"

Much as she wanted to say no, the last thing Moore wanted to do was tip her hand, inwardly impressed with the unaffected, "You're not interrupting," that came from her, her eyes back to the line of graves, all too fresh for comfort. "I missed what I was coming out here for anyway."

Julie came up alongside her and paused, her gaze following the trajectory of the colonel's own. "You came here to see Jackson, I take it?" she asked, turning her attention to Moore's face in time to see a nod. Offering a faint smile, she said, "Nice to know someone still feels the need to be present for a burial."

"Take it that doesn't happen too often these days," Moore replied, brow furrowing slightly.

"Compassion fatigue," Julie commented, almost absently. "Only so much grief a person can suffer before they learn to tune it out."

Turning her eyes to the doctor, Moore said, "Have you?"

Canting her head to the side, Julie seemed to consider the question for a moment. "I'm getting there," she admitted, however reluctant she was to say it.

"Mn..." Glancing towards the doctor, Cassandra could see that the younger woman was- off, in a way, enough so that it was apparent, even after only a day of having known her. "Was there something you wanted to talk to me about?" she asked, breaking the relative silence that surrounded them.

Julie nodded, coming out of her reverie, her expression losing some of its agitation. "Yes," she said. "It has to do with acquiring some additional supplies."

"Can't you talk to your own people about that?"

"We can," Julie said, "for some things. Blankets, mostly... but until we can make more, we're running on a shortage of medical supplies. While we could conceivably wait until a fresh supply is made, I'm concerned that it might be too little, too late."

Moore glanced back at the tent city for a moment before giving the doctor her full attention, and said, "This is something you'd be better off running past the major. He's the one that handles requisitions."

"I plan to, for some of it- but for this, it's possible that we'll need someone whose voice carries a little more weight." Beat. "It- has to do with our supply of Rad-Away. We only have enough for the patients present."

"Since that sounds more like a good thing than an actual problem," Moore observed, "should I take that to mean that you're expecting new arrivals?"

"No," Julie said. "Not immediately, anyway."

Whatever that meant. "You do realize that we're not going to receive any new supplies for some time now, don't you?" Moore said flatly. "That even if I 'lend my voice' to this, there's a good chance the request will be turned down?"

"I do. But I'm concerned that if we don't act soon, the people here- even you- might find themselves getting ill somewhere down the line."

Arching an eyebrow, the colonel said, "'Ill?' More cases of radiation poisoning, you mean?"

"For some of the less affected survivors, yes," Julie said. "But they're getting the treatments they need, at the moment. It's the rest of us I'm concerned about."

"Our current rate of exposure isn't exceptionally high, though, is it?"

"So we've assumed," Julie said, "but we've had some fluctuating readings from the geiger counter... likely from particles that weren't pushed east. And considering how potent those particles have been, I'd- well. I'd rather play it safe, if at all possible... the iodine we've been handing out is a start, but its efficacy, and what it targets, is narrow at best."

"I'll see what I can do," Moore replied, somewhat noncommittal, "but I can't make any promises. Between this and the fireworks we saw over the Divide, those additional supplies might be needed for some of the other settlements in the region."

"I understand," Julie said, nodding. "And I'm hoping we'll be prepared for that. As is, I'm drafting a proposal to send to your ambassador... see if we can make an attempt to pool our resources, in the event the fallout is worse than anyone anticipated."

"You'd be better off contacting Colonel Hsu if you want to make any headway on that," Moore replied flatly. "At the moment, the only thing you'll get from Crocker is a load of bureaucratic nonsense, especially now that he's cut off from from his handlers." Not that they ever did him any good in the first place. "Better to consider the political office null and void for the time being."

Julie smiled slightly at that. "According to Major Kieran," she said gently, "you considered his office null and void well before all this started."

"Probably because it is," Moore said flatly. "The civilian government shouldn't be touting politics in a war zone, much less claim that it's under the guise of diplomacy."

"How do you mean?"

Moore just shook her head at that, and said, "It's nothing worth mentioning, at the moment," in a mild tone. "A discussion for another time. Now... was a resupply all you wanted to speak to me about, or was there something else on your mind?"

There was still a faint lapse, there, a hesitation, but eventually, Julie said, "There is, actually," the words tentative. "I wanted to apologize for last night."

So far as Moore could tell, there was more to it than the administrator was indicating- something beyond the obvious, at least, but her patience with emotional burdens was running thin. "While normally," she said, "I'd say I appreciate it, I'm not sure why I'm the one you feel you should apologize to."

There was a hint of recognition in the administrator's face that seemed almost amused, for a moment, but Julie sobered quickly to say, "I just know I'd be upset- or at least, angry with the person charged with caring for a friend of mine if I'd seen that kind of neglect taking place."

Arching an eyebrow, Moore observed the younger woman for a moment, unable to keep from noting the peculiarity of the exchange. A Follower looking to an NCR commander for absolution? That was one for the history books.

"Ghost knows she's going to die, Dr. Farkas," she said, then. "Under the circumstances, she knows isn't going to be your first priority. But, that being said... she wasn't particularly pleased with the way Jackson's body was handled. Or not handled, as the case may be." Turning to look at the grave nearby, her hands going into the pockets of her jacket as the cold nipped at her fingertips, she said, "Everyone knows the doctors and medics here have a lot on their plate... but I think some of them are having a hard time understanding why the dead are treated with this kind of indignity, even if there is something to be said for compassion fatigue, as you put it."

A pause. Then, "Forgive me for saying, colonel... but I'm surprised to hear you say that."

There it was again; that feeling that there was something else on the administrator's mind. Still, "I imagine you would be," was the only thing Moore saw it fit to reply with, unimpressed by the admittance.

Wisely, Julie didn't respond to that directly; seemed to take the rebuke in stride. "Is Ghost concerned that she'll be treated the same way?"

"Something like that," Moore said, voice lacking inflection. "I assured her that it'd be dealt with properly, though, so hopefully, she won't be as concerned with it from here on out."

Silence.

"Well," Julie said after a time, "I'll resist the urge to pry." Beat. "And if either of you need anything, don't hesitate to come find me."

"I'll let you know if something comes up," Moore said, again adopting a non-committal tone. "Thank you."

At that, Julie left, affording Cassandra the time to consider the monument at the top of the hill. She'd never liked the thing to begin with, but now, it had been given new meaning. Something she'd never look at the same way again, the weight of what it symbolized felt long after the mountain pass had been reclaimed, and the tent city torn down, leaving only the line of graves on the hillside to serve as a reminder that it was ever there in the first place


	8. Triage

**[** 8 **::** Triage **]**

* * *

><p>Staring blankly up at the fabric ceiling of the VIP tent, watching the erratic ripples of the low-hanging material against the support beams, Cassandra was certain that if the cold wasn't conspiring to keep her awake, both wind and sunlight would. Every method she had of ignoring the oscillating light that seeped in from between the tent flaps had failed, hints of the mid-morning sun caught in short bursts that could be seen clearly beneath closed eyelids, bringing her back from the brink of sleep more times than she could count. Everything from pulling the blanket over her eyes to slinging an arm over her face to blot it out had failed to work, the intermittent howl of the strong winds outside, the insistent contortions of the material that provided her shelter sounding every bit like flapping wings of a panicked bird.<p>

That image followed her into an aggravatingly brief moment of sleep, into a short-lived dream of a crow with its foot tied to a boulder, its many and varied attempts to escape coming just short of success by the time she opened her eyes. Raising from the bed, the frustratingly apt metaphor serving as reason to believe that a sleepless night had become a sleepless morning, she pulled on her clothing, straightened her hair, and stepped out into the sun, welcoming the light into her tent in same the way one might welcome an obnoxious, overbearing acquaintance.

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p><em>Look around you,<em> Ghost had said, vehement in spite her ailing strength. _What the hell does this look like to you?_

Captivity, she'd conceded. It all looked like captivity, no matter how much open air was around them. Still looked as much like captivity now as it did the night before, when the question was raised.

Sitting in the mess tent, picking through a tumorous yellow mass the cooks had claimed were scrambled gecko eggs, she knew it wasn't a leap to assume that the patients within the camp weren't the only ones who felt like prisoners. Soldiers assigned to the post, unable to leave without being put up on charges for going AWOL, were becoming both increasingly bored, and increasingly agitated, more and more withdrawn from the merchants and civilians that had opted to stay of their own volition. Where outsiders had access to food and drink that didn't come from the mess tent exclusively, the soldiers had little choice in the matter, and they, like Cassandra, were none too thrilled with the fare that was offered, though at least some of them chose to make a joke out of it.

Or, one of them, in any event.

"What does this smell like to you?" one trooper asked, jabbing an overcooked sausage in the direction of the woman sitting across from him.

"How many times have I told you to cut that shit out?" she said irritably, edging back from the piece of meat hovering in front of her nose. "Seriously, it's hard enough to choke this slop down without you giving me some detailed description've what it smells like."

"At least I asked you this time," he said in his defense. "But, if that's how it's gonna be-"

As he withdrew the sausage to sniff at it thoughtfully, presumably to offer an answer of his own, Cassandra was distracted, briefly, by an outburst behind her, "They _let him_ die," spat contemptuously. "Same as all've 'em. Just waiting for our guys to keel over so they can get the hell out of here, go back to all the junkie fucks they've been coddling in that fort've theirs."

As intent as she'd been to hear the response, glancing towards some of the nearby medics to see how they took to the accusation, she found her attention brought back to the small group she'd been listening to before, upon seeing one of the soldiers sitting alongside the initiator of 'name that smell' get to his feet in a show of frustration. The young man then proceeded to make a show of walking towards the entrance to the mess tent, and pitching his food, along with the tray, plate, utensils and all into the trash bin.

_Another pointless requisition form just waiting to happen,_ she thought, overhearing the woman say, "Way to go, Sanchez."

"Not my fault the Jungle Gym brings back painful memories," Sanchez replied, far from contrite, then jabbed his fork in the direction of the sausages on the woman's plate. "You gonna eat that?"

Hearing the young man behind her start to get agitated again, "You didn't see him," followed by, "you wouldn't know," said under his breath, his continued refusal to remain calm in spite of the urgings of his friend starting to raise tensions, giving the other men and women that surrounded her only one mode of recourse: talk more actively in an attempt to shut him out.

It didn't work.

"Hey, _fuck you_, Palmer," the young man behind her barked, clearly hitting his breaking point. "Don't tell me you haven't been thinking about it. We _all_ have. They're too chicken-shit to kill our guys outright, but give 'em a chance to watch 'em suffer and all that- pacifist _bullshit_ goes straight out the window!"

"For fuck's sake," his friend hissed, "what the hell is wrong with you? Keep your goddamn voice down."

"No," the young man said, raising to his feet, giving Cassandra reason to glance over her shoulder, keep him in her peripheral vision. "No, fuck that. I've fuckin' had it." Catching sight of one of the nearby medics paying close attention to him, he snapped, "What the fuck are you looking at? You gonna tell me I'm lying?"

"What do you think?" the medic retorted. "We're doing the best we can under extremely difficult circumstances."

"Don't give me that bullshit," the young man shouted. "Have you heard that smug piece of shit workin' day shift, saying we brought this on ourselves? Acting like we've been _asking_ for it?"

"Haven't you?" the Followers medic shot back. Now it was the medic's turn to get stared at; even Cassandra's eyes went straight to him, at that, surprised to hear the retort made with such conviction. "What?" he said defensively, intent on digging himself deeper. "You all know it's true. And what did you expect? You move in here, touting your flag, and you have the nerve to act surprised that someone got _angry_ about it. Look at-"

"_Shut up,_" one of the medic's friends hissed. "This isn't the time to-"

"Isn't the time?" the young soldier interrupted, outrage plain on his face. "What, you _agreeing_ with him?"

"No!" the woman protested. "I didn't say that! God- I don't agree with _either_ of you, but he's not lying about doing the best we can. Look, we're not playing favorites, we're just-"

"I said," the young soldier shouted, "_don't_ give me that bullshit!" a note of genuine something- anger, anguish, even a sense of betrayal in his tone. "And seriously, _fuck you_. _Both_ of you. I watched my buddy _die_ while you stupid fucks were busy with some guy that wasn't gonna live any longer than he was. Just _ignored_ him 'til he-" He paused, abruptly, nearly shaking from the exertion of retaining what little control he had left.

Turning, he opted for a retreat before he said, or did anything to tip his hand to the emotions that dogged at him. "Fuck this," he said under his breath. "I don't need this shit. Our guys come in here looking like a bag of smashed asshole and this broke-dick tree-hugger's saying they deserved it?" Getting as far as the door, he paused- and turned to look straight at the medic who'd challenged him. "You go ahead and say what you like," he growled, the hatred in that stare a force unto itself. "Go ahead and let more of our guys die while you've got your thumb up your ass. Tell all those kids in 'Gaseat how they got what was comin' to 'em. Just don't pretend you got the high ground."

Slamming the door shut behind him as he departed, the young soldier left the mess tent in a brief period of uncomfortable silence, the medic responsible for meeting the accusation fixed with so many baleful stares that he, too, rose to leave.

And, as if nothing ever happened, Sanchez raised his fork again, "How about this?" said blandly. "What's this smell like?"

Uncouth as it seemed, it had the intended effect; allowed the rest of the men and women dining at their respective tables to go about their business, desperate to ignore what had just transpired. Proved, once again, the need for some separation.

Wondering if perhaps she should have intervened in the events that came before the tension finally broke, Cassandra decided, as she took what few bites of food she could, that it was better she hadn't, either out of a vague sense of sympathy towards the young soldier, or the notion that some things were best brought out into the open, regardless of how distasteful they were.

Better that, than letting them fester.

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>Letting the coffee she'd had that morning work its way out of her system, enough that the stimulants wouldn't inhibit her ability to sleep, she found that, in lieu of the sunlight, and the wind, there was the sound of voices to keep her mind active.<p>

Realizing belatedly that she'd managed to choose a time that coincided with the afternoon 'changing of the guard' to try and sleep, she could hear the scuffing of combat boots against the dry soil, hear the idle chatter passed between soldiers as they either left for, or returned from, their regular patrols. The camp had been so quiet at other times, and so often, that their voices were something of an anomaly, giving her something to zero in on every time she picked up on bits and pieces of conversation. At least once, she heard some indication that a fight had broken out, and wondered briefly if it was a result of the confrontation she'd seen in the mess tent earlier.

Maybe she should have said something. But that was assuming she cared to.

By the time thing had finally quieted down enough that sleep became an option again, she found she was back where she started- staring at the ceiling of the tent, utterly exhausted, but hopelessly awake.

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p><em>What you're asking me to do could cost me everything.<em>

Sitting in the command tent after informing Major Knight of her intention to make contact with McCarran, her cheek resting on the heel of her palm, she stared at a stack of papers in front of her, and found herself dwelling on the words that had been spoken the night prior. The sentiment hadn't gone unchallenged, and shouldn't have. Cassandra knew, the moment she'd said it, that it was easily one of the dumbest things to come out of her mouth in years, something Ghost had every right to tear into. The preoccupation left her inattentive, the words on the report becoming a blur, her eyes instead becoming riveted on the upturned corner of the top page, giving her fingers something to toy with, roll back and forth until it had inherited a permanent curl.

Were it not for turning her eyes back to the name 'Hsu' written hastily at the top of the report, a 'note to self' in case she forgot, she might have stayed that way for well over an hour. Straightening, she did her best to pull herself out of the near-hypnotized state she'd fallen into, her hand going immediately to the coffee she'd brought with her, taking down a good mouthful of it before realizing why she'd set it aside in the first place.

It wasn't coffee, just some bizarre substitute that claimed to be coffee, brewed from coyote tobacco and mesquite pods.

Briefly considering the idea of spitting it out somewhere, she instead decided it was less unseemly to just swallow it down. Quirking her lip at the less than pleasant aftertaste, she cleared her throat and, setting the radio to McCarran's frequency, placed a call in to Colonel Hsu to talk to him about the possibility of bringing in some more supplies. As she'd suspected, he was reluctant to say, one way or another, if the request for more anti-radiation medication could be procured, citing the same reasons she's given for why it would be difficult to justify. For her part, she had little to worry about in regards to getting the treatment she needed, but that, he knew, was not a reminder she was looking for. After all, it wasn't _her_ health she was concerned about.

"I know," he said, the following silence leading her to wonder if he was resisting the urge to state that he _was_ concerned, even if she wasn't. "I've seen the reports," he continued instead, "so I know how bad things've gotten out there. That we're not likely to retain any of those scouting parties."

'Not likely to retain.' The man's ability to put things lightly never ceased to amaze.

"There's a couple that look like they might pull through," Moore replied, "but the odds aren't exactly in their favor."

"Take it you read the OSI report?"

"Yes. Unless they've issued a new one."

"They have, actually," he said, sounding none too pleased about it. "Now that they've had an opportunity to study the soil samples, they've pushed the dose rate up. Can't give you the exact numbers just yet, but... it doesn't look good."

She allowed that to sink in for a moment. "Those soldiers were only treated for five Gray," she said, to no one in particular, as if saying it aloud would solidify the reality of the situation.

"I know. And any additional meds we gave them-" He paused; she could almost see the frown on his face, hear it echoed in his tone. "Well. You read the report, so you already know most of those details..."

"I do," she said absently, the hand that had come to rest at the bridge of her nose shifting back to push some of her hair away from her face. "But is that with or without-" Pausing, she struggled for a moment to remember what Keely had named as one of the primary culprits, fingers drawing away from her hair to tap against her nape, as if that might somehow help her remember. It didn't, but that came as no surprise. "What was it she said was causing the worst of it? The inhaled particles, I mean."

"Gold. And the answer is 'without.'"

"No wonder they're dropping like flies," she said under her breath. "I don't suppose there's been any good news, has there? Any word from Shady Sands?"

"We've managed to establish contact," he said, "but we haven't been able to maintain a stable connection. Enough of one to confirm that there haven't been any more attacks, but we haven't written off the possibility that there's another one on the way."

"How soon until we can get a scouting party out to the Divide?"

"Soon, I hope. I don't look forward to giving the order, but..." He knew as well as she did that they needed an answer, to both who was responsible, and whether or not they planned to strike a second time. Instead of continuing that line of thought, however, he said, "How are things at the outpost, by the way?"

"What, you mean morale?" she said. "Or the lack thereof, I should say?"

"Something like that."

"There's been some tension between our men and the Followers stationed here," she said. "Seems like it's come to a boiling point. A lot of people looking for someone to blame."

"Blame for what? The attack?"

"Anything?" she said, absently glancing towards the entrance to the command tent. "Everything? Doesn't seem to matter. And to make matters worse, the way triage seems to work around here, there's a lot of soldiers who feel like men are being left to die without treatment."

"And what do you think?"

"I think people are doing the best they can," she admitted, wearied. "Realizing that their best isn't good enough, through no fault of their own. Goes for both sides."

He paused, then; to consider a suggestion, she'd thought, but he managed to surprise her, "Listen, Cassandra-" said gently, in his 'personable' tone, a telling silence coming soon after.

Hesitation, after moving on to a first name basis. He was breaking out the big guns.

"Yes, James?" she replied dryly, smiling faintly in spite of herself.

Hearing him chuckle, her smile widened just slightly, though his tone was sober when he continued to speak, "How are you holding up?" asked with a tinge of concern.

"I'm fine," she said. "Exhausted, but fine."

"The exhausted part I got," he said, trailing off for a moment. "I've just never seen you voluntarily go on leave before, and considering where you are... I can only assume you're there to see someone you know."

"I am." No point in lying about it.

"Well... I just wanted to say that, if you need someone to talk to-"

"We'll see," she said, a little too abruptly. Then, calming, she added, "I might," in a softer tone, telling herself it was only to make him drop the line of questioning; God forbid she admit that the offer was a tempting one. "Stranger things have happened."

"Just take care of yourself, alright?" he said. "And get some sleep. It sounds like you could use it."

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p><em>Take care of yourself<em>.

If only he'd known what that meant.

Either way, she took at least some of his advice to heart, making yet another attempt to get some sleep, and finding that, if it wasn't the sound of voices, it was the bed springs digging into her ribcage that were conspiring to keep that from happening.

Adjusting the sheets to try and compensate for the uncomfortable prodding of the coiled metal, and at times attempting to scoot far enough away from it to keep from feeling it boring a hole in her side, she met with some moderate success, but it didn't last. Without fail, she would somehow manage to roll over in just such a way that the faulty bed spring was back to its old tricks, jabbing her rudely and bringing her right back to consciousness. Made her wonder if the damn thing was migrating all on its own, just out of sheer spite.

Looking disdainfully up at the coffee cup she'd left on the desk alongside the small twin bed she occupied, only too aware that her levels of frustration were getting to a point where she may very well tear her mattress to shreds, she once again raised to her feet, and started the cycle all over again, resigned to the insomnia that plagued her.

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>Traveling away from the tent city as the sun began to set, her jacket draped over her arms, brought along in case she stayed out for long enough to face the night time chill, Cassandra had come to a halt at a nearby, run-down gas station. Prior to the refugees from the Outpost claiming the foot of the hill for their encampment, the place had apparently been crawling with scorpions, though she'd been assured that they'd been cleared out, their clutches burned before they could hatch. Opting to take her chances- in spite of her misgivings- in the interests of finding a place to settle for a time, she made her way towards the ruined hood of a rusted Corvega; the garage it was parked in providing meager cover from the setting sun, and a decent view of both the camp, and the dry lake across the way.<p>

Once settled, her back against the windshield- somehow intact in spite of how many years it had been since the war- her legs drawn up partly up to her chest, arms draped over either of her upturned knees, she lit a cigarette from the pack she'd bought at the liquor stand, grateful for the opportunity to be alone, allowed to indulge in a bad habit she'd kicked at least ten times over.

Looking across the way towards the Ivanpah, she took in a slow drag from her cigarette, and watched as the winds that had so annoyed her earlier provided a unique spectacle, as if in apology for keeping her awake. Raking across the dry soil in earnest, it created a haze that blotted out the base of the hills along the horizon, the dust particles that swirled around lit gold by the setting sun.

The temperature shift, along with the steady winds, kicked up a small, short-lived dust devil near the old racing tracks the dry lake laid claim to, the sight of it calling to mind some of the descriptions she'd seen in Knight's reports. Pillars of fire, the survivors had said. Some had even claimed to see tornados, birthed by the intense pressure changes that followed in the wake of the initial flash, rushing in on the tail end of a blistering heat wave. It was like something out of the Divine Comedy, from what she could tell, and for a moment- only a moment- she almost envied those that were there to witness it. A spectacle like nothing else on the earth, untamable; a force of nature.

Shaking her head as the thought crossed her mind, she brought her attention back to the human toll, mildly disgusted with herself for dwelling on it. Only in exhaustion, she told herself, would she find that something worth envying. Flicking her cigarette to scatter the ashes on the hood of the car, she took another long drag, the slight light-headedness that came from the nicotine welcomed, gladly, as her eyes turned to the camp. Fires were being lit in some of the trash cans surrounding the perimeter, and some of the soldiers were already setting up the generators in preparation for another cold night.

Seeing them- seeing the medics as they walked between infirmaries- she realized that she had skillfully avoided entering Ghost's tent for the entire day; had avoided thinking about what their last conversation entailed for just as long. Not the words, but the sentiment behind it. The reason for it. Had to admit to herself, finally, what it was that had kept her awake for so long.

It hadn't been the cold, the sunlight, the voices or the bedsprings; it was unwanted responsibility that had denied her the sleep she so desperately needed. And it would do so again, until she made her final decision.

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>She hadn't returned to Ghost's bedside until well after the sun set, after she'd gotten a little more food and yet another round of coffee, her latest cup mixed with a healthy serving of liquor. She'd been pleasantly surprised by the far more palatable taste, and welcomed the warmth it brought as she settled in for what she assumed would be a very long night.<p>

The tent itself had been cleaned since last she'd been inside. Gone was the tell-tale scent of cloying putrescence, and of waste, replaced by an overpowering chemical aroma, like someone had spilled an entire gallon's worth of antiseptic onto the sand where Jackson's gurney had been. It reminded her of hospitals she'd visited back in the NCR proper, the ones that still had facilities worth cleaning, but she couldn't remember, for the moment, why she'd been there. Something that hadn't been too important, apparently; worth forgetting.

Nothing like this.

Laying quietly on the bed, Ghost was breathing steadily, evenly, getting the much-needed rest Cassandra had been deprived of. Julie had mentioned the reasons for the prolonged sleep during one of her visits to the tent; that the ranger had spiked a high fever midway through the day, that she and one of the medics had to bring the temperature down to keep from risking brain damage.

"I know you might not want to hear this," the Follower said, "but she asked for you, a couple times, so I'm glad to see you here."

Julie explained that she would have found Cassandra if possible, but that, between the patients and the fight that had broken out between the young soldier and one of her medics, there was too much going on. It was a mistake, she'd said, but allowed herself to be at least partly relieved by the colonel's willingness to forgive the oversight. Everyone was tired, and with tensions so suddenly on the rise, it wasn't something Cassandra could be all that upset by. Besides, it wasn't as though she was going out of her way to make herself available, the later it got.

The only thing that had her attention, presently, was the same thought she'd had before she'd departed for the encampment, when she hadn't even laid eyes on her old friend.

Was it too late already?

The thought continuously springing to mind every time she attempted to focus on the papers in her lap- tried to read a page of a book that barely held her interest. Would wake her with a start every time she nodded off in the chair she was perched on. And it arose again when she watched the older woman quietly, observing her state with as much detachment as could be managed. By now, the sharpshooter's skin was a patchwork canvas, morbidly complimented by a mix of pale yellows, sienna reds, hemorrhaged purple... and as always, the blackened edges of flesh gone necrotic, scattered over her like the amended strokes of a paintbrush. Decay, the showboating artist eager to take credit for its finely-tuned work, was everywhere, its signatures plain.

There, getting lost in the patterns of ulceration, of lividity, she found that she had finally received an answer, a gently stated, "What're you lookin' at?" bringing her attention to the ranger's face.

The wan smile the dying woman afforded her was returned, briefly, but there was no good humor exchanged between them; just acknowledgement. Once given, it faded, their shared expressions turning somber, replaced with quiet regard, the facetious greeting falling to the wayside, silence settling between them. Raising to her feet to come alongside the gurney, Cassandra seated herself at Ghost's side, pushing aside any thoughts of resentment, animosity, or hesitance. There were so many reasons to be feeling all three, but none of them seemed to matter.

"I heard about what happened earlier," Cassandra said softly, then lapsed back into silence, allowing for a few moments before the question that weighed on her mind was stated. "It's already started, hasn't it?"

The delirium. The myriad humiliations that came with it.

To that, Ghost merely nodded. "This mean- you made up your mind?"

It was Cassandra's turn to nod, eyes trailing along the older woman's body. She felt strangely removed from the moment, and knew she shouldn't be; wondered how long the distance would last, if it was just fatigue, or if she had no more emotion left to offer, in a moment that deserved at least a show of it.

"What're you- gonna do?" Ghost asked, calling Cassandra's attention back to her face.

It was hard to tell if those eyes held fear, or relief... or both.

"Does it matter?" Cassandra asked, at long last.

The question already had an answer, from the night before. _Just keep my eyes open, as long as you can._ But in spite of all attempts to make this decision with grace and resolve, the woman was instead like so many others that had come before: afraid. Desperate, even for a moment to consider other options; a living contradiction unto herself. And would those eyes be showing the distress they did now? The uncertainty, the inability to decide, one way or another, if this was the right thing to do? Or would that fade when the moment finally came?

Steeling herself, Cassandra asked, "Are you sure this is what you want?"

A long silence fell between them, one the both of them allowed for. This was not a decision to rush, and even though it had already been made, stated affirmation itself was a different story.

And then, an answer.

"Yes." A single syllable, choked out around a thick knot of bitterness, grief, resentment; of resignation.

As humiliating for Cassandra to see as it was for Ghost to experience, in its own, strange way. To the younger of the two, this person was, at times, a mentor, never lacking in strength, or resolve, neither of which was present. For once, it didn't need to be.

For a good, long while, the two women merely regarded each other, one dry-eyed, the other, laying beneath a watchful gaze, no longer holding on to facades, tears flowing freely over the bandages. There was no dignity here- just dull recognition. Acknowledgement that there was no hope, no chance to escape; that the only choice that had been given to the older woman wasn't much of a choice at all.

A means of controlling the last thing she had any say over-

-and that was the end of it


	9. Collateral Damage

**[** 9 **::** Collateral Damage **]**

* * *

><p>A solitary individual sitting quietly outside a tent in the pre-dawn light, wiling to ignore both the cold and the possibility of being seen in exchange for the chance to simply sit and breathe, was not an uncommon sight in the encampment. Be it a doctor, medic, friend or relative, there was always someone who needed a moment to regain themselves, away from the infirmaries and their occupants. It didn't seem to matter if relief was sought in the form of staring blankly, or fighting the urge to weep; regardless of the method, there was a strange, disjointed unity in the response, a shared emotion that ran too deep to be ignored. To many, it seemed doubtful that the pattern would come to an end until the encampment's own final moments were well underway.<p>

Up for her morning rounds earlier than she'd anticipated, Julie found herself watching one such individual, seated on a chair outside the tent that had been home to the two Rangers she'd been tending. She didn't need to wonder who it was that had taken up residence there- the colonel had made it clear that she intended to spend 'as much time as she needed to' in the tent, though she hadn't elaborated on what that entailed- and there was no need to wonder why. There might not have been any questions raised at all, in fact, were it not for the hundred yard stare.

It wasn't uncertainty Julie saw there, but a coming to terms that served as a peculiar contradiction to what she'd seen from others. At first, she wondered if the assessment came about because of who Moore was, if she was once again allowing her own pre-conceived notions to get the better of her, but the more she saw- even at a distance- the more she became convinced that something was wrong.

Approaching the tent cautiously, Julie didn't offer condolences, or ask questions when she got within earshot, and Moore, for her part, didn't raise her head, or offer so much as a single hint of acknowledgement, her attention split between her hands, and the tent across from her. Her posture was loose, unguarded, elbows leaning against her knees, hands clasped loosely in front of her. Rather than look closer at the thin chain the colonel held, no matter how curious she happened to be, Julie instead peered into the tent Ghost occupied. Everything seemed to be normal; the sharpshooter appeared to be resting comfortably, her head tilted just slightly against her pillow, hands resting gently against her abdomen... but there was a notable absence.

The steady rise and fall of the ranger's chest had ceased, and the longer Julie watched her, the more it became clear that she had stopped breathing altogether.

"I don't want any lectures," Moore said, immediately calling Julie's attention to her. "And just in case you decide to get the wrong idea," she continued, raising her eyes to return Julie's questioning gaze, "you should know that I was planning on telling you what happened. It just didn't seem all that urgent, under the circumstances."

Though it sounded for all the world like an official report, like business as usual, those words had weight to them. But it wasn't until Julie saw black flecks still clinging to the colonel's hands, saw that the chain she'd looped between her fingers held only one silver dogtag, that the full acknowledgement of what had happened took hold. Seeing the dawning realization as it took place, Moore didn't shy from it- didn't attempt to turn from whatever unspoken judgments were leveled on her.

"What happened?" Julie asked, keeping her voice even; as gentle as she could manage.

"Same thing that's been happening here since this started," Moore replied. "It just happened sooner than expected."

"When did she die?"

"Ten minutes ago..." Moore shrugged slightly, turning her attention back to her hands. "Maybe fifteen. It's hard to say for sure."

Silence fell between them for a time, Julie's eyes slowly returning to the still form of the sharpshooter inside the tent. For all her training, all her years dealing with difficult situations, she found herself at a loss for words. It wasn't the first time she'd seen this form of mercy- or heard about it. And while there were questions that needed answers, ones that would make what she was seeing alright, Moore spoke before they could be given a voice, her tone absent, more depleted than it had been initially.

"You forget sometimes," she said, as if speaking to no one in particular, "that regardless of whether or not someone feels as though they're ready to die, their body doesn't always get the message."

Julie paused on that- sensed, in a way, the emotion that came with that observation, the difference she'd seen in the colonel's demeanor suddenly becoming clear. It still wasn't uncertainty, still as nameless as it was when she'd first observed it, but it was there.

"She struggled," Julie said gently, "didn't she?"

Moore didn't respond directly to the question, but that, as well as the faintest furrow in her brow, was answer enough. Julie gave the other woman what time she could; waited for some continuation, some added sentiment, or question. Hearing none, she paused to consider what she had to say, wondering if it would be accepted, or even appropriate. It went without saying that Moore wasn't the type who took well to anything but detachment- but in this instance, there seemed, at least, to be a silent invitation of sorts. Acknowledgement that in this situation, facades didn't count for much.

"Would she have done it herself," Julie asked, then, "given the option?"

"She wouldn't have asked if that weren't the case," Moore replied simply.

"Then I don't think you have anything to worry about."

Returning her eyes to Julie's, Moore offered a vague half-smile, bereft of humor. "Who said I was worried?"

Noting the dry tone for the deflection it was, Julie opted not to pursue, instead allowing a pause to settle between them, watching as the colonel turned her attention back to the silver chain in her dirtied hands.

"You look exhausted," Julie observed softly, allowing for a note of empathy to color her words, no matter how they ended up being received.

No matter who she was speaking to.

"I'm not sure 'exhausted' quite covers it," Moore replied, "but it's as good a word as any, I suppose."

"Might not hurt to get some sleep."

Letting out a short chuckle, Moore just shook her head, and said, "I'm sure it wouldn't... but there's a few things I need to see to before that can happen."

"Anything I can help with?"

"There is, actually," the colonel said, raising to her feet, her hands still partly upheld, fingers unlacing only slightly. "I know you're a bit strapped for supplies at the moment, but- I don't suppose you'd mind telling me..." She trailed off for a moment, focusing on her hands for a time before returning her gaze to Julie. "Where do you keep your disinfectant?"

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>By the time Cassandra had cleaned both her hands and the single dogtag in her possession, Ghost's body had already been moved out to the hillside. The previous day, one of the two gravediggers that tended to the dead had taken it upon himself to dig several new plots, reasoning- and rightly so- that there would be a new workload by morning. Grateful to have arrived in time to see the body being lowered into the shallow grave, but wishing she'd gotten there in time to make sure the dogtag she'd slipped into the sharpshooter's cheek had remained where it was, Cassandra stood and watched, quietly, as the plot was filled in, little by little.<p>

That peculiar sense of detachment that had clung to her in those last moments at Ghost's bedside continued to linger, even as she took in the sight of the burial. She was no stranger to mercy killings, had been ordered to carry them out personally on the field in the past, but that had always been done at a distance.

The faces she'd seen, those she could call to mind, had been seen through the scope of a rifle; faces that went blank, fell slack the moment she hit her intended target. But this, stripped of professionalism and made deeply personal, intensely intimate, was so far removed from those experiences- the only experiences she had to compare it to- that she was left with little more than nauseating uncertainty.

Beneath her hands, she'd felt those last staggered attempts to breathe, had seen a wild flash of animal panic in rheumy, unfocused eyes. Had felt, and seen, a vehement, but ultimately futile effort to struggle against the act's inevitable conclusion, knowing through those last few moments that she could be ignoring a genuine change of heart. It was instinct alone that guided those last few actions, she told herself; prior to the outburst had been an expression of gratitude, one that turned to acceptance the moment her hands had covered the older woman's nose and mouth, acceptance that had endured as they locked eyes for the last time.

It was when her hands had been drawn away that she saw what became of that acceptance, a sense of serenity replaced with a mask of reflexive anxiety. Every time it came to her mind's eye, the smell of death that clung to her skin seemed to amplify, and no amount of disinfectant had seemed to take it away. Even now, as the last few piles of dirt were thrown on the fresh plot, she could smell it, lingering on her skin, making her wonder if it would ever dissipate.

Remaining where she was until the gravedigger moved elsewhere, getting far out of earshot to join the rest of the encampment, she didn't approach until she was certain no one was interested enough to look in her direction. There, at the foot of the fresh plot, she stood quietly, until that spike of anxiety overtook the cool detachment she'd been privy to. Reflexively, she sought to cling to it- but in the end, she allowed it to unravel, let it give way to emotions she knew she'd have to face, sooner or later.

"You knew this would happen, didn't you?" she heard herself say, tone spiteful, her fatigue, and the burden of the past couple days, easily getting the better of her. "And here, I gave you the benefit of the doubt... thought that perhaps, you asked me to help because you didn't want anyone else to, thought-" She paused, letting out a short, sardonic chuckle, though the sound, and her smile, faded quickly. "As misguided as it sounds, I thought that it was because you still trusted me. But now, I'm starting to wonder-"

She came to a halt there, painfully aware of where the train of thought was going. Bad enough that she was talking to a dead woman, nearly ranting at a gravesite no more than an hour after the death had taken place- but upon feeling the sting of moisture in her eyes, feeling a tremble in her hands, she couldn't help herself. The words were coming, even if there was no one nearby to hear them.

"I just hope you appreciate the fact that the nightmare may be over for you," she said, her frustration mounting as she heard her voice waver, "but for the rest of us, it's only just beginning. The Legion could go on the offensive any day now... take full advantage of what's happened, realize they have a real shot at getting the upper hand. That's assuming the fallout doesn't take us all out in the meantime, of course... or, hell, that a second nuclear strike doesn't finish the job for them. These are the things I _should_ be thinking about, but instead?"

There was no fighting the tears that came in the wake of that sentiment, the purely vindictive reaction it came from proving to be one that she couldn't abide by, no matter how strong the impulse had been to give it voice. Blinking rapidly to try and clear her eyes, she raised her head to look away from the grave, jaw clenched, hand raising to wipe away the saline trails on her skin.

"Instead," she began again, "all I can think about is you... and I have to wonder if that's exactly how you wanted it to be. If you knew, when you told me that this was the way _you_ wanted it done-"

Another pause, another halt, abrupt, almost involuntary, her throat constricting on the words as a fresh wave of moisture clouded her eyes, "_Shit,_" hissed disdainfully under her breath. "I wouldn't even have to ask," she snapped, the words coming with more ferocity than she'd expected, "wouldn't have to _think_ about it if you'd just _stopped struggling_-"

The words, their vehemence, stopped her short, stunned by the outward admission, the intent behind the outburst- that it was easier to believe that a dead woman's final, delirious struggles were all intentional, an act, a slight unto itself, than accept the loss for what it was.

It left her paralyzed, the shame that dovetailed off of the realization undoing what little self-control she retained. Faltering, her voice giving way to a hitched breath, one of her hands went up to cover her mouth, as if that one gesture might hold off the inevitable. But the first clutch of tension in her shoulders, and a brief, embarrassingly helpless sound in the back of her throat let her know that there'd be no holding back. That the anger, the frustration, were little more than distractions; diversions to keep her from acknowledging the suffocating uncertainties brought on by everything from the past hour, to the past two weeks. And there, for the first time in what felt like decades, standing on a hill littered with the corpses of men and women who were little more than collateral damage in a seemingly pointless assault, she wept openly, grateful only for the ability to do so in silence.

Only the dead bore witness, blind and deaf to the grief of a solitary woman who, like everyone else they'd left behind, had little choice but to try and make the best of a bleak future they would never have to endure


	10. Wednesday, March 1st, 2282

For reference: I did my best to hunker down, do more research, and make the best of pulling together a finale. Influences for the speech itself should be obvious. There are quotes from Truman and Eisenhower in regards to the atomic bomb, and the military industrial complex, as well as quotes from Clinton in regards to the Oklahoma City bombing. I told people to 'figure it out' when I posted elsewhere, but since no one did, I wanted to cite my sources this time around.

There may be an epilogue upcoming, but it'll be awhile.

* * *

><p><strong>[<strong> 10 **::** Wednesday, March 1st, 2282 **]**

* * *

><p>That evening, several hours after Moore had fallen into a dreamless sleep, the call went out across the Mojave that a stable connection had been established with Shady Sands. For the first time in two and a half weeks, the President would be making an address- not just to the soldiers that held Hoover Dam, but to all territories where the NCR had influence. Roused from slumber by a wearied Major Knight and told the news, Moore had joined him in the command tent- and across both the encampment, and all the settlements throughout the desert, people were compelled, regardless of their affiliations, to listen in.<p>

In most instances, military leaders would have been given a briefing on what was to come ahead of time- this time, they were warned that the power requirements needed to broadcast the address made it so both military officials and civilians would be briefed simultaneously. There would, however, be instructions sent to ranking officers in the region after the fact, a move that Moore suspected was being made to keep arguments over the speech itself- and over the orders they were being given- to a minimum. On that, she could only hope she was being overtly cynical, that the events that occurred earlier that morning- and the distinct lack of sleep she'd gotten after over a forty hour time period- had colored her perceptions of what she was about to hear.

Even so, she couldn't help but wonder if Oliver had heard the content of the speech ahead of time, and hadn't cared enough to prepare his senior officers for what they were about to hear.

"_My Fellow Californians,_" Kimball began, his tone somber, "_citizens of the Mojave... it saddens me to know that I speak to you today against the backdrop of the terrible tragedy that occurred on Tuesday, February 13th. To those of you affected, I only regret that I could not have addressed you sooner, and let you know that in these, your darkest hours, you are not alone. This grievous assault has resonated throughout our great republic, endured not only by you- the civilians and soldiers that have been given the unenviable task of securing, and protecting the territories our growing nation now lay claim to- but by your countrymen._"

Moore snorted at the pause he allowed for, the sound earning a quirk of Knight's eyebrow.

"I saw the speech he was supposed to deliver at Hoover Dam," she said. "'Pause, appear concerned' was one of his non-verbal cues."

"_I would like to take a moment here to address all those who knew the people inhabiting the Long-15 Army base, and Lo Gaseat respectively," Kimball began again, "to tell you that, even as we share in your grief, we know that the pain of the friends, families, and loved ones who have suffered this loss is unimaginable._"

"'Unimaginable,'" General Oliver, still sequestered in his office at the Dam, muttered at the radio, his bottle of gin opened and in-hand. "S'only unimaginable 'cause you couldn't give a rats ass about any of 'em."

"_To us, they are remembered as loyal patriots, and public servants, but you knew them as more than that. To you, they were your neighbors, colleagues, your comrades in arms; people whose lives went beyond their impact on the republic as a whole. Knowing that we will never get them back, that we cannot undo the profound damage inflicted on them, is a terrible burden that all of you, through no fault of your own, are now forced to carry._"

The gravedigger, taking a break from his labors on the hillside to eat, paused, and glanced to the radio at his side. "Was a burden you gave 'em the moment they set foot on this soil, Mr. President. Didn't start with the bomb... but it should damn well end with it."

"_Those of us at home- those who don't have brothers, sisters... mothers and fathers, sons and daughters serving in the military, or seeking to stake a claim to a brighter future in promising new settlements... though we have seen this tragedy unfold peripherally, understand that we only have the slightest insight into what that burden must entail. You have lost so much- too much- but you have not lost everything._"

Keely's eyes narrowed as she kept her eyes on her revised report. "Guess he didn't get the reports about the aftermath. Not that anyone would expect him to pay the least bit of attention to them if he had."

"_Know that you- and all those in the Mojave who have had to again witness the awful arithmetic of the atomic bomb- have the support of your fellow Californians, all of whom have pledged to stand with you; know that we have kept you in our hearts, and minds, and that we will continue to lend you all the support we can to ensure that your struggles have not been in vain. __**Will not**__ be in vain. And we will not allow those responsible for this reprehensible act go unpunished._"

"Here it comes," Moore said flatly, the remark earning a grim look from Knight, her sentiment carried on in the mess tent down the way.

"This is the part where he pisses off every peacenik in this hellhole," Macklin remarked to Klein, eyes on his cards, their game put to a halt as the address continued.

And in McCarran, another echo, Colonel Hsu's eyes straying warily to the radio on his desk. "Pick your targets wisely, Kimball. You've got plenty of viable candidates listening in, and they won't take kindly to being singled out."

"_While we as a people are defined by the hope that, even outside our borders, there is decency,_" Kimball continued, "_we recognize that there are some for whom that word does not apply. Our forebears, the men and women who emerged from Vault 15 and formed our great republic, understood this..._"

"I like how that almost makes it sound like we don't," Dr. Richards said, glancing between the three other people at the table. "Really warms your heart, doesn't it?"

"_They understood that, in our efforts to maintain peace and prosperity, we would be confronted by those that would seek to do us harm. That we would face regimes that threatened to undercut everything we've accomplished, no matter how many times we've proven that we do not take our responsibility to our people, or our ideals, lightly. That never once have we failed to show our great resolve, even at those times when it seemed that all was lost._"

"If we're going on the offensive," Knight said, "then this'll be one time I'll be happy to be taking orders from General 'Wai-'"

He stopped, earning weary look from Moore. "You can say it, major," she said dryly. "General 'Wait and See.'"

Knight relaxed as the rebuke he expected, tuning back in to Kimball's address. "Rather let you say it for me."

"_I believe it goes without saying that the character of this assault,_" he was saying, "_and the depraved intent behind it, once again obliges us to show that resolve. To let them know that we will not be subject to the shallow vision of men and women that seek to erase the progress humanity has made, or be cowed by an unseen enemy whose singular goal is to demoralize; an enemy that would let us believe, in their absence and anonymity, that they are capable of causing far greater destruction._"

"I sincerely hope he knows what he's doing," Moore said under her breath, unable to fight the sick feeling the thought gave her.

"The way he's talking," Macklin said, brow furrowed, his grip on his cards tightening, "you'd think he wants the guy who did this to go for round two."

"_Let them know that they have awakened not our fears, or uncertainties, but that they have ignited in us a fierce determination to see that justice is served; that we will stop at nothing to make sure they that will never again know what it is to be safe, in or outside our borders. For them, there will be no escape. And for our greater enemy- for the Legion- there will be no reprieves._"

"Leave it to Kimball to try rallying the troops when they're runnin' on fumes," Lacey muttered, feigning more disinterest than the three men she'd been playing a hand of poker with, though even she was paying closer attention than she might otherwise admit. "Get the feeling I'll be staying open late tonight."

"_They, and their allies must not, and will not, be allowed to take advantage of the situation we find ourselves in today. Hoover Dam, and all territories we have secured in the name of our republic, will remain under our control, and we will defend them as vigorously as we have in the past. There will be no surrender, or retreat._"

One of the soldiers in the infirmary just shook his head, "No escape," echoed absently, leading Julie, at his bedside to take his vitals, to frown slightly, though she made no comment. "Guess he thinks _we_ should be punished, too."

"It's not him that makes the decisions," said the man on the gurney alongside him. "It's Congress."

Julie's patient snorted, eyes turned to the ceiling. "An' none'a them got any relatives in 'Gaseat, I wager."

"_On that,_" Kimball continued, "_I would like to turn my attention to the men and women serving in our armed forces, those for whom that declaration carries the greatest resonance._"

"Go fuck yourself, Kimball," Macklin said, slapping his cards face-down on the table and picking up his beer. "Only thing 'resonating' with me these days is that shit they fed us for breakfast."

"Hear, hear," Richards said, raising his own drink in turn.

"_I know that some of you- wearied by the long fight against the Legion, disheartened by the hardships that have befallen us- will hear this and feel as though we, the leaders you have come to depend upon for guidance-_"

Klein arched his eyebrows, glancing towards the radio. "The blind leading the blind."

"_-don't fully appreciate the difficulties you'll have in meeting our expectations. That we're unable to understand what it is we're asking of you. As one who has witnessed the horrors of war first-hand, let me assure you that I do understand, and that your hard work, the sacrifice you've made for the republic, will got not unnoticed, or unrewarded._"

"Oh, yes," Richards said dryly, "rewarded with a flimsy penchant fund that even a Freeside squatter would find lacking. Definitely worth its weight in pain and anguish..."

"-_Nor is the faith I place in you unwarranted. You are, beyond all shadow of a doubt, the finest soldiers the wasteland has ever known; the greatest fighting force mankind lays claim to. It is you who will draw a line in the sand against the Legion; you that will prove to them, even at those times where it seems as though surrender is our only option, that we have not- will never forget that the very structure of our society, the very essence of who we are, demands that we stand united, unswerving in our devotion to our principles-_"

The medic assisting Julie snorted dismissively, eyes narrowed. "-And our desire to put every bystander at risk."

"_-diligent in our pursuit of our republic's great goals. And I have the utmost confidence that you will do that, and more._"

"Maybe add another 'Bitter Springs' to the mix while they're at it," the medic continued, jotting down a few notes on a patient's chart.

"There's a time and a place," Julie said as a word of warning. "This is neither."

"_Remember that this is not the first, nor will it be the last time that our republic has been met with what seemed like insurmountable odds. In those days that we fought against the Brotherhood, against the Enclave, there were times when it seemed as though we might falter. But instead, we prevailed... and we will do so again._"

Another pause; this time, all those listening in seemed to sense a shift in demeanor, even at such a distance, if only thanks to the rather prolonged silence they were subject to.

Knight cast a glance towards Moore over his shoulder, as if looking to her for some insight into extended pause.

Moore just shook her head. "If I'd just told my men to hold the fort with no incoming supplies, I'd be at a loss for words, too."

"Take it you don't agree with him?"

"Doesn't matter, if I do or don't," Moore replied. "He knows as well as anyone that this is the only viable option we have, at the moment."

"_My fellow Californians..._" Kimball continued, his tone marking the conclusion of his speech, his continuation leading Moore to give Knight a 'one moment' raise of her hand, "_the free world knows, out of the bitter wisdom of experience, that vigilance and sacrifice are the price of liberty. As we peer into society's future, we- you and I, and our government- all have an obligation to see past the trials we face in the here and now, to an era of peace that is neither partial nor punitive._"

"'Peace,'" one of the patients said. "Don't think he knows the meaning'a that word."

"_With your help, and the continued support of those of us back home, our democracy will not wither into insolvency at the behest of our detractors; it will survive for generations to come._"

Keely's frown deepened. "Assuming there _are_ any 'new generations' out here."

"Lord in heaven," Angela Williams sighed, casting a glance in the ghoul's direction, "you've really got a knack for seein' the bright side've everything, don't you?"

"What can I say?" Keely replied, deadpan; humorless. "It's a talent."

"_The journey ahead may be long and arduous, but know that I place my full faith and confidence in all of you, in the knowledge that you will be at the forefront of our efforts to chart a course toward permanent peace and human betterment. Know that the strength, and courage you show in these upcoming months will serve as an example for all republicans to follow; that history will remember you as a force to be reckoned with, men and women that stood defiant where others might falter._"

"Let's just hope there's room in those pages for the ones that _did_ falter," Julie heard herself saying, her gaze taking in the waxen features of a patient they were sure would pass overnight.

"_For that, and for your continued service to the republic, you have the gratitude of a proud, enduring nation. May our singular vision see you through these dark times, and may you always know that your countrymen stand with you, united- in grief, and in triumph._"

The brief silence that followed gave a hint that maybe, there was more to be said- but instead, only, "_Thank you, and good night,_" came over the airwaves, ending the address, leaving those in the encampment- and across the Mojave- with a collective sense of unease that the speech had failed to put to rest.

[...]

Not too long after the address had been given, Moore received word from Colonel Hsu that Shady Sands had authorized resupplies via vertibird; that what could be spared of the fleet back home had been mobilized to deliver goods, pay, and armaments to the Mojave. It wouldn't be nearly enough, she suspected, and said as much aloud, a concern Hsu had agreed with, but at least it was something. That they would still be able to offer payment to their troops, keep what was likely to become a flagging economy aloft, was little more than a band-aid.

As it stood, the President knew that a great deal of that pay would go to the caravans to supplement an ailing supply cache, whether or not such purchases were within regulations.

"Since we're in a state of emergency," Hsu said, "my guess is that he and the Joint Chiefs'll be looking for ways to loosen the regs. Give us some breathing room."

"Bought with our own hard-earned money," Moore replied dryly.

Mercifully, with Knight alongside her, Hsu didn't see it fit to speak to her as personally as he had the last time they'd gotten in contact. He did, however, leave her with something she knew was meant to be taken on a personal level- at least in part. To anyone who didn't know him, the addendum sounded for all the world like it was as professionally-based as everything else.

"I'd like to meet with you in person sometime this week," he said. "Go over some of the numbers with you to see what good can come of this."

"I'll do my best to make time for it," she replied, though didn't feel the immediate inclination to tell him later that there was no chance he'd be seeing her.

In a way, she knew she could use some familiarity, even if she never ended up saying what had happened in the encampment.

Once that was over, she exchanged a few words with Knight, about the speech, about where the Mojave campaign was going. After the first few, she realized that his questions were ones he already knew the answers to- that retreat wasn't a viable option, that defense would be difficult but do-able, if they played their cards right- it was instead a desperate attempt to gage if she, one of his superiors, shared his concerns about where they were going. She'd obliged him, somewhat, offering him what tacit reassurances she could that she, and presumably the general, had no intention of pursuing goals that were now well out of the army's collective reach- but eventually, she found herself too weary to be of much use as a sounding board.

"A great deal of this campaign hinged on the barons and the caravan companies as backers," she told him in conclusion. "Chances are, with the amount of radiation that might be pouring into the area, the barons won't be that interested in the Mojave's farmlands any longer. The Dam, we'll keep... but everything else will probably be an acceptable loss if all Kimball has to go on is tax revenue."

Knight smiled slightly at that. "And I thought I was cynical," he said, his one slight attempt at levity.

"I'm not sure it counts as cynical if it happens to be true," Moore replied, returning his slight smile with one of her own- and though it was forced, he didn't seem to notice that it was less than sincere.

"Sounds like something Ghost would've said," he commented as she turned to leave. "Well... maybe if there were a few more 'goddamns' thrown in for flavor..."

She paused on that, glancing over her shoulder to see him fidgeting with his desk key. "Did you know her well?"

"Sort of," he said, eyes on the key in his hands. "Well as anyone could, I guess. She kept to herself most of the time." Beat. "It'll be weird, not having her around once we get back to the Outpost. Jackson, too." He paused, then, and looked up at her finally. "Sorry," he said. "I know she was the one you were here to see. Means you probably knew her better than I did."

"Maybe," Moore said, keeping her tone as even as possible. _Maybe not._ Allowing for a brief pause, she turned back to the entrance again, saying a quick, "Goodnight, major," as she eased the metal door open.

"'Night, colonel. And- thanks. For clearings things up for me."

It was an awkward show of gratitude, one she gave him an obligatory 'you're welcome' for in return before moving to depart, but she knew, as she opened the tent and felt the crisp air outside, that his entreaty was just a sign of things to come. On that thought, she paused at the threshold for a time, glancing at the tent Ghost and Jackson had occupied. Already, it was being dismantled, the gurney and equipment that had been set up in the tent set outside, the plastic sheets that had been on the dividers taken down to cover over the more expensive devices- ones that didn't react well to stray particles of sand.

The troops wouldn't just be looking up to their superiors for instruction any longer- they'd be looking to them for more support than they ever had before, for a few words meant to assuage their uncertainties, even if the source they looked to for reassurance seemed like an unlikely one. Somehow- regardless of whether or not she had the stamina- she would have to find a way to provide them for others, all the while knowing that the one person who could answer her own would never be able to do so.

What reassurances she found she needed- no one she could think of was likely to provide, not even if she took a chance, dropped the walls, and let them know how badly she could use to hear them.

"Ma'am?" she heard Knight say tentatively, the sound of his voice bringing her back to the present. "Is everything alright?"

"Everything's fine," she said, realizing belatedly that she was letting what warmth remained in the tent to escape. "I was just thinking..." Sliding the door shut again, she looked over to him; saw a curious gaze turned back at her. "Those interviews you were doing-"

When she didn't complete the thought, he said, "What about them?" to prompt her.

"Have you considered conducting them with more than just the survivors?"

His eyebrows raised considerable at that, incredulity plain. "I hadn't, but- it's... not a bad idea." A beat. "Does this mean you're volunteering...?"

"Aside from being at risk of saying something that might get me demoted? I don't see why not."

He smiled half-heartedly at that, but sobered quickly. "Any time you'd like to do that, or-?"

"The sooner the better, I think," she replied. "Just let me know when you've got time."

Knight, as tense as he'd been, almost seemed to relax as the silence passed between them- as if she'd just given him the reassurance he needed in that single exchange.

"I've got time now," he said eventually. "Need to get the holotape recorder from Julie, but that shouldn't take long."

"Do that," Moore said. "It'll give me some time to get something to drink."

"Got that covered," he said, using the key he'd been fumbling with to open one of his desk drawers, a full bottle of whiskey withdrawn from it.

She raised her eyebrows at that, affording the man a faint smile. "Well, look at that," she said gently, one of the few nods to levity she'd made in what felt like days. "Keep this up and you'll make lieutenant colonel in no time."

[...]

Though the interview itself did little to alleviate the discomfort the morning had instilled in her, it allowed her, in some small way, what the offer to join the poker game had: a chance to become one of the many, relieved of rank and responsibility, for long enough to simply give an account of what she'd seen. There wasn't any comfort in it, but in a way, there was a vicarious sense that in lending her voice to what would eventually become the history of the mountain pass, she was not alone.

But there was only so far she was willing to take it, when push came to shove.

Cutting off her recollections before they became too personal, or maudlin, Cassandra said, "I'm sure we'll have plenty to add to these accounts in the next few weeks," as she raised to leave the command tent, the aside earning a faint chuckle from the major. "Or- next few years, more like it. But for now, that'll have to do."

"Next few years," he repeated, shaking his head slightly as he refilled his glass. "There's no telling when we'll ever get a chance to go back home."

She paused on that thought, hand coming to rest on the cool metal door. "Hopefully," she said, pushing the door open, "you won't be waiting for too long," setting aside the words that had come to mind. "Goodnight, major."

He nodded, but didn't offer a response, as if he, too, was turning over the same thing she was: that returning to California didn't have the appeal it might have, once upon a time. Leaving the command tent with that in mind, she could see the Followers administrator on approach- and briefly thought of simply turning to walk away, to spare herself what may very well be an awkward conversation, though the younger woman seemed intent on catching up to her.

"Colonel," Julie said gently, stopping once she came within earshot, her labcoat pulled tightly over her shoulders to stave off the chill of a cool breeze. "I've been looking for you."

"Why?" Cassandra replied, already knowing full well what the answer was. "Has there been another fight?"

"Thankfully, no-" Julie paused for a moment. Then, affording the colonel a look that hedged on the apologetic, she said, "I just wanted to see if you were alright."

"I am. For the most part."

"You don't sound too sure about that."

Cassandra merely smiled, the faint, resigned expression a statement unto itself, though the words, "Would you be?" came as something of a surprise to her.

It shouldn't have; she was too tired to make excuses, or provide fronts. Too exhausted to care.

"I suppose not," Julie admitted. After a brief silence passed between them, she said, "Headed to sleep?" as if to avoid callously ending it on the note prior.

"I am, yes."

"Well... I won't keep you, then." Opening the door to the command tent, she said a quick, "Goodnight, colonel," over her shoulder, leaving Cassandra to wonder, once again, if sleep was even an option.

The bottle of scotch, and the book she'd brought with her, served as her only company for the remainder of that evening. As it had been in the mess tent the night- no, two nights before, she found she couldn't focus on the words, letting her mind drift back to those last few moments she'd spent at Ghost's bedside. About the tirade she'd nearly gone on at the gravesite. Neither sat well with her, and while she hadn't expected them to, she hadn't expected the uneasiness she'd come away with, either.

But thankfully, that uneasiness didn't impede her ability to sleep, the debt of exhaustion she'd run up in the past forty hours catching up to her just as easily as it had when she'd finally returned from the hillside. Lulled by the haze of the alcohol in her system, she closed her eyes and let herself drift off, and neither the howling of the wind, the sound of voices outside, nor the prospect of unruly bedsprings could call her back until morning.

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>Word of the interviews had spread like wildfire both that night, and the day after, those that weren't busy with patrols, or working shifts at the infirmary, quick to state their interest in the project. As Moore had the night before, the lot of them seemed to take a peculiar kind of comfort in the show of solidarity; in knowing that, though their Commander in Chief had all but forgotten about them the night before, they would still leave their mark, somewhere.<p>

"Ever made it a point to study history, major?" Moore had asked, at the beginning of her own interview.

"I know bits and pieces," Knight replied, looking up from the report on his lap. "Never looked into it much, though."

"I have," she said. "At first it was for tactical information- strategies employed by the military that may be of some use to us in the here and now. After a while, though... I became more interested in the context of those battles." Pausing to gather her thoughts, she glanced at the drink she had in-hand, forefinger tapping absently against the dusty rim of the glass. "The one we don't have a great deal of context for is the Great War," she continued, voice softening, "and how it all started. Not what lead up to it, but those moments before the first missiles were launched."

"Think that one's been on all our minds," Knight said, as Moore took a small sip from her drink.

"With good reason," she said. "And every time I think about it, I can't help but go back to the fact that the people responsible for it- the ones who fired the first shot, I guess you could say... They knew, ahead of time, what they'd be in for." Pausing for another sip, she kept her eyes on her glass for a moment, but eventually turned them back to Knight. "At least, that's what I assume. Those people had seen what happened in Tel Aviv, and to the European Commonwealth in turn. They'd seen, twenty years prior- and a little over a century before, besides- what nuclear weapons could do, but they chose to ignore it. Why?"

Though she lapsed back into silence, Knight didn't respond, his eyes remaining on her as she downed the remainder of her drink, his attention turning only to replenish the whiskey she'd drained from the glass. "'Mutually assured destruction' wasn't just a pithy turn of phrase," she continued, raising her glass once it had been refilled. "It was an absolute. Every powerful nation on this earth knew what it meant." A pause. "What do you suppose was going through the minds of the men responsible for that initial assault? Were things really so desperate that what was bound to come next seemed like an acceptable risk?"

Another pause; another drink. "That same turn of phrase must have been on someone's mind when they saw the radar screens, and knew they were going to be the first in a long line of casualties. There had to be someone present who thought, even for a moment, that maybe it'd be better if they did what they could to mount a defense, but didn't try to retaliate. That- instead of launching a counter-offensive that would almost certainly lead to mass destruction, they'd protect what few cities they could, and the rest-" She stopped- and shook her head slightly. "Well. I'd say that maybe, serving as a warning to other nations looking to get in on the fight of what can happen might have served as a deterrent, but things happened too quickly. Once the chain reaction started, there was no stopping it."

It was a note she went silent on for a time, leading Knight to ask, "What would you have done? If you were in that situation, I mean."

"In command of the situation?" she said. "It's a good question... but it's not one I like to think about."

"You don't have to answer-"

"No, I will," Moore interrupted him. "It's just one of those lines of thought that can get a bit humbling. At least, when you're being truthful about it" Beat. "I've thought about it before this- 'incident,' if you can call it that. About how it must have felt to be in that position. Seeing those incoming missiles on a radar screen, and knowing what your future would be once the bombs fell..." She lapsed back into silence again, looking at her drink- and thinking better of downing more. "Maybe they couldn't stand the thought of being the only ones to face that future," she continued, almost absently. "Maybe they decided that... if their people had to endure what was coming? So did everyone else. When you're facing down that kind of destruction, at the hands of an enemy you've been fighting for years, it's- human... to retaliate, no matter the cost."

"So you're saying you'd do the same?"

"Probably," Moore admitted. "I can't say the thought didn't cross my mind when I saw the mushroom clouds in the distance."

"You saw it happen?"

Moore nodded. "We were making preparations for the President's arrival at the time," she said. "Running over contingency plans, making sure we had all our bases covered." She thought about that for a time, expression turning tense- but thoughtful, all the same. "You know, as we were listening to the President's speech, I-" At that, a halt; and a short, dispassionate chuckle, the glance she favored Knight with met with a shared moment of unease. "You're thinking it, too, aren't you?"

"Been thinking it since he came on the air," Knight said, hardly needing to hear the context of the question to know they were on the same page.

Moore just shook her head, looking down at the dusty floor between them for a moment. "I'm not ashamed to admit," she said, returning her eyes to him, "that for a moment, I was genuinely afraid of what he might say. Afraid that, at any moment, I'd hear that Kimball had every intention of launching a counter-attack, using all the same weapons. That we'd find ourselves repeating history, whether or not we wanted to."

She and Knight weren't the only ones to state that belief. As the interviews continued, the same fear was repeated, some stating it as an irrational anxiety, some stating it as something that was liable to happen in a matter of weeks. Beyond that, the solidarity expressed in the shared willingness to talk, there was a strangely like-minded approach to what they'd seen, and what they thought might be waiting for them in the future.

"There's people out there," Julie said, when it came her time to speak, "who've seen what's happened here, and the only thing they see is that these weapons are effective. And not only that, they're accessible." She stopped, and frowned, doing little to hide the concern in her expression. "To be honest, I think I'd prefer to find out that we are dealing with another group entirely. If the message gets sent that two 'lone wolves' are capable of finding those abandoned silos, and putting them to use..."

"Almost makes you think we should've listened to the Brotherhood," Klein remarked, in his own testimonial. "Let 'em go about their business. Might've had the numbers by now to keep all those missiles under wraps. Might've even partnered with us to make sure they stayed that way."

"Got all these assholes walking around," Macklin said, leaning back in his chair, his armed crossed tightly over his chest, leg bouncing restlessly, "thinking they know what's right. Think they got nothin' to lose by makin' some big goddamn point." He scoffed, disgusted, a baleful stare leveled at the ground. "Chaps my ass that anyone could've thought this was a good idea..."

"Not that it's hard to figure out what their intent might have been," Moore had said, during one of her more speculative moments. "The precision in those strikes speaks for itself. If they were looking to severely disable both sides of this conflict, they got their wish. But why they used this method..."

"It's barbaric," Dr. Richards said bluntly. "I don't care if they think they were being 'elegant' about it, or thought they were being 'clever.' They slaughtered innocent civilians, and for what? We all heard what Kimball said. The fight's not over. Hell, they could've hit us with _ten_ bombs and chances are, it _still_ wouldn't be over."

"All it means is that... it'll be harder for everyone, in the long run," Klein sighed, shaking his head. "Guess whoever it was, they were looking for folks to suffer."

"May not like admitting that this sorta thing could ever get to me," Lacey said, idly ashing her cigarette, her eyes on everything but Knight. "Or even that it did in the first place. But all you gotta do is look at the faces've some of those doctors..."

"You can tell there's things they've seen here that they'll never forget," Moore said gently. "Though... I suppose none of us will, when it comes right down to it."

"I'd never seen radiation sickness this severe before," Knight said, when it was his turn to give an account. "When Ghost threw up the moment she got back from searching the wreckage, I didn't think it would get as bad as it did for her. Those pamphlets they give us, the ones the NCR print out? They don't prepare you for the reality of it."

"Not sure I like the fact that I can say I saw someone's skin fall off," Lacey admitted. "Never did look into the infirmaries, or candy-stripe 'em like Klein seemed to think I ought to, but I saw some of those bodies as they were getting moved out to the hillside." She quirked her lip slightly, in grudging concession. "Really is like something out've a nightmare."

"Best we can hope for is that something good comes of it," Dr. Richards said, shrugging his shoulders, his arms crossing loosely over his chest. "Whatever 'it' is. Like this... slap-fight with the Legion, what's happening here? It's not over yet. Not even close. Not really sure if anyone can tell me when it will be, either."

"Maybe it's just getting started," Knight said, when it came his time to speak. "Hell of a thing to think about, isn't it?"

"And we've still got a lot of patients to tend to," Richards sighed. "Plenty that are finally making headway, thank god... "

"It's strange," Julie said, smiling weakly. "Earlier this evening, I saw someone die of natural causes for the first time since I've been here. An elderly woman... one of the early interviewees. I'm not sure if you remember..." She paused, considerate, the smile fading. "The fact that even one of those people your soldiers brought back was able to die a normal death, peacefully, among people caring for her... means that the effort to retrieve the victims wasn't as much of a loss as it might seem."

"That's one thing we'll have to keep reminding ourselves," Moore said, "especially those of us who gave the orders to initiate the search in the first place... That the rescue effort wasn't all for nothing. That we made the right decision."

"Sure, for every life lost," Knight said, "there wasn't an equal amount saved. But some of them came through alright."

"I just wish it didn't feel so damn pointless," Richards said. "Everything that's happened here. Not the work we've done, or the people those soldiers went in to save- but the strike itself. I don't know if I could live with knowing that it was just some petty act of revenge, or that it was just an accident."

"I'm sure for a lot of people," Moore said, "it's easier to believe that the Legion targeted itself to make it look like they're innocent. But there's several glaring problems with that, saying nothing of the fact that bombing your own supply lines is rarely a good idea. Really, if the Legion was idiotic enough to do all that, just to prove a point? We'd have won the war by now. Easily."

Julie paused for a moment, considerate. "Almost makes you wonder how they're dealing with it," she said. "The attack, I mean. Through all of this, we've been so concerned with what happened to us that we can forget, rather easily, that we weren't the only ones hit. To make matters worse, rumor has it that they don't believe in using modern medicine."

"Might be the only time in history that I'd ever feel bad for the dumb bastards," Macklin admitted.

"Makes me wonder how they plan to respond to this," Moore said. "How the next few months will pan out..."

"Let's just hope they're not as overzealous as we've made 'em out to be," Klein said. "'Else... we're in for a hell of a long haul."

"I'm sure everyone will continue to do their best in spite of it all," Julie said, though her tone was somber. "But, if I've learned anything from this- or, relearned, I suppose I should say... it's that, sometimes, all you can do is accept that your best isn't good enough."

"All you need to do is look at that hillside," Knight said, "to know that's the case."

Moore paused on that, frowning, as she considered the last words to add to what she had to say, though she had to push past the emotion that came in the wake of the unburdening- as many others that followed her did, as well.

"It's not enough to say 'we can't let this happen again,'" she said. "It's not enough to simply talk about it, or speculate. We live in a world that's been shaped by one of civilization's worst mistakes... by one of the most inhuman acts this planet's ever witnessed. _We're_ the ones that should know better, _we're_ the ones that shouldn't need any reminders. That even a single bomb was dropped, well after the war that brought us here-" She paused, brow furrowing. "It's unforgivable."

She took the remainder of her shot, then, and set the empty glass down.

"I imagine whoever's responsible would like us to believe that we let this happen," she continued. "That we brought it on ourselves."

"Did we?" Knight asked- the sincerity in his tone bringing Moore to pause.

And for a moment, her anger faltered, the concession she made grudging, but no less sincere than his question.

"I don't know, major," she said gently. "In some ways... maybe we did."

* * *

><p>[...]<p>

* * *

><p>Over those two days, those in the encampment continued to work, to put their efforts towards those few that they could save, their thoughts turned, finally, collectively, towards both the victims under their watch, and those beyond the mountain pass- in Lo Gaseat, and the neighboring base. And though the settlements slept, left unchanged since the moment it was struck down, its mindless inhabitants still stirred from time to time.<p>

In the streets of 'Gaseat, a lone ghoul lay next to a silhouette burnt into the ground, fingers delicately stroking the pattern with the utmost tenderness, low moans uttered as if it ached to give comfort to something that was no longer there. It understood, somewhere, what the black mark emblazoned across the concrete represented- knew that it was here that it had been robbed of its mind, its identity, even its sex... and that something of great importance had been where the shadow was now. Something it had treasured. Night after night, it had returned to this spot to lie down and speak, in its infantile way, to one of many unearthly memories seared into the streets.

Had it any sense, it would have mourned all the disembodied shadows dotting the pavement. Would have stopped at the water tanks the town had relied upon and seen the crush of bodies, skinned by fission and fire, that had piled into them in a desperate bid for hydration, for the opportunity to cool down. If it had traveled down to the army base, it would have been witness to men and women- far enough away from the blast to have a few moments before succumbing- clutching to each other for comfort; would have seen two young soldiers, hand in hand, blackened hides partially shed to give way to decay, bodies so irradiated that even the most opportunistic buzzards passed them by; seen solitary forms without anyone to cling to, or reach to, curled in on themselves.

And at the perimeter of the base, it would see a woman, face-down on the pavement, where the two rangers that had eventually followed her into death had seen her teeter, and fall. In her hand, a bracelet, brilliant turquoise sandblasted into white gold, wed to her skin by the intensity of the blistering shockwave that swept over her, fingers opened as if her every last effort was put making sure someone- anyone- saw it, and took it from her. A gift to those who had thought to save her, maybe... or a memory, to pass on to the person whose name had been engraved into the expertly-crafted finish.

As weeks passed, they would be further stripped of their identities, but for some, their final moments remained frozen in time, a last expression of human emotion.

It seemed merciful, then, that what sense the lone ghoul laid claim to remained so singular; that it might never know the magnitude of the destruction that surrounded it, or understand what it meant. Unlike those that would eventually arrive to survey the damage, it would never ask if the men and women left strewn through the wreckage wept as they died; if they were frightened, lonely or heartbroken.

Those words no longer possessed meaning; nothing did, except the small shadow under its care.

What lessons that were taught by the disaster were ones it would never be privy to, and would never have to learn. In itself, it could only teach. Beyond logistics, answers, strategy and speeches- beyond testimonies and eye-witness accounts, it ignorantly answered the question that so few had wanted to ask, with every idiot stroke of its ruined hand.


End file.
